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\ or,. XL, So. 13. December 30, 1893. Subscription Price, $1.50 





OSSIP SGHUBIN 

Author of “ Countess Erika's Apprentice- 
ship,” “ One o/ Z7s,” etc. 


ssued Semi-Monthly. Entered at the Post-Office at New York as second-class matter. 

PETER EENELON COLLIER. PUBLISHER. 523 \V. 13th Ex.. X.Y. 


Pears 


Pears’ Soap does noth- 
ing but cleanse ; it has 
no medical properties, but 
brings back health and the 
color of health to many a 
sallow skin. Use it often. 
Give it time. 


BROKEN WINGS 


BY 


/*• 


OSSIP SCHUBIN 

Author of “ Countess Erika’s Apprenticeship” 
“ One of Us,” etc. A 

y 

(** 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1893, by 
Peter Fenelox Collier, 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 


.V 



Disease — still pursues those who 
are weak. Flesh means strength. 
Solid, healthy flesh is supplied by 



of Cod-liver Oil, with hypophosphites 
of lime and soda. Disease is thus 
averted and the body is made 
healthy. Physicians s the world over, 
endorse it. 


It is well to take Scott’s Emulsion when 
recovering from an illness, but it is bet- 
ter to take it in time and prevent the 
illness. 

Prepared by SCOTT & BOWNE, N. Y. Druggists sell it. 



FIRST BOOK. 

She came of a good family, or, at all events, one that 
had always held itself somewhat high. Her father? 
whom she resembled, had been known as Baron Jewitsch, 
and her mother, whom she did not resemble, was a 
daughter of a noble family, the Von Ingelsheim. 

Her father’s family had not long been founded, so to 
speak, and, as for the title, it had been held only by the 
generation just before Nina’s father ; the mother, how- 
ever, belonged to old landed nobility, and could boast 
of the most aristocratic connections. But the Jewitsch 
family was not in the habit of pluming itself on its high 
origin. If there was anything they were proud of it was 
the great mental gifts of their father, gifts which they 
would whisper — and this was an article of faith with the 
widow as well as all the children he had left — had al- 
ways been a hindrance to him in his career, because he 
would go too deeply into things, and in consequence was 
apt to get into uncomfortable relations with his superior 
officers. That' was not the way of promotion, and most 
decidedly not in the army. And Karl Jewitsch had 
been an officer in the cavalry. 

Thanks to these somewhat excessive mental powers, 
he had never managed to rise beyond the rank of major, 
and was obliged to retire on half -pay when forty years 
of age. Before his four children grew up he was no 
more. And, although he left them in miserable circum- 
stances, they held his memory in the greatest reverence 
and honor. 

“Poor papa!” so they always said when speaking of 

( 3 ) 


4 


BROKEN WINGS. 


him, “poor papa! He might have done much better for 
himself, but there was too much in him ; that’s the sim- 
ple fact — there jvas too much in him.” 

And Nina — Nina took after her father. Like him, she 
was “too gifted,” and unfortunately for her it looked as 
though her case would be like his, and her mental quali- 
ties do no better for her than to make her life bitter and 
difficult. 

As to the sons — they were both in the navy, and very 
clearly did not regard themselves as gifted, otherwise 
they would hardly have ventured upon the career of 
arms, military or naval — the sons went simply on their 
path in life, patiently waiting for promotion as it might 
come to them. They suffered, as Austrians of good fam- 
ily in poor circumstances are so apt to, from an excess 
of shyness and modesty, which made it impossible for 
them to force their way upward or to claim the protec- 
tion and patronage influential family relations might 
have afforded, and other such means of getting on. The 
only thing they did to make for themselves a “career” 
in life was to fulfill the duties of their position in a 
straightforward and blameless manner. And they man- 
aged to save some very moderate sums out of their scanty 
pay, which they sent home every month with exemplary 
regularity. 

The poor mother used to receive these sadly scanty 
offerings with tears in her eyes. She knew only too well 
that her sons had saved the money by denying them- 
selves what really were almost the necessaries of life to 
them. And, knowing this, she made the least possible 
use of what she used to call the “starvation fund;” and, 
in fact, she employed it only for the purpos*e of getting 
something for her boys themselves which they needed, 
and which, in fact, she never allowed them to be long 
without. She worshiped her boys, and with the best of 
reasons. 

Although the sons bore their straitened circumstances 
with such truly rational patience, yet they held them- 
selves erect, were of independent spirit, and had lost not 
a particle of elasticity and strength of character. The 


BROKEN WINGS. 


5 


smallest pleasure that came in their way was enjoyed 
by them like children, while the large and expensive 
pleasures of others touched no chord of envy in them — 
nay, were rather regarded by them, from the distance in 
which their poverty placed them from such delights, 
with genuine and unaffected pleasure. It was their 
habit, when they had leave of absence, to go “home” in 
excitement very like that of schoolboys, and it never 
occurred to them to spend their leave otherwise than 
with ‘ ‘mother. ’ ’ They slept in a dark little room whose 
only light was from a pane of glass inserted in the door ; 
and their only amusement consisted in now teasing and 
now spoiling their sisters, in gossiping away the time 
with their hands in their pockets, comfortably relieved 
from the stiffness necessary when on service, and espe- 
cially in trotting about after their mother when she was 
engaged in the performance of her household duties. 

These duties amounted to pretty continuous and severe 
work. The baroness shrank at nothing; she cooked, 
ironed, washed, anything, in short, that was wanted, and 
it not infrequently happened that one of the young naval 
officers took his hands out of his pockets to share in his 
good mother’s labors, which ho would do with all a sail- 
or’s handiness and in the best of temper and the highest 
spirits, as though it were all the best fun in the world. 

Yes, indeed, her “brave boys” were the greatest com- 
fort to the baroness ; and that they would get on fairly 
enough in life, in spite of their modest and contented 
habit of mind, she never allowed herself to doubt for a 
single moment. 

Unhappily, it was not so well with the girls. Certainly 
the younger ones got on fairly well ; they had their 
brothers’ sanguine temperament, every movement of 
their young frames was pleasure to them, even if that 
movement was for nothing more exalted than scouring 
and cleaning up generally. They exhibited the most ex- 
traordinary capabilities for every sort of household occu- 
pation. They not only cut out all the garments for 
every female member of the family, but also did all the 
sewing of their brothers’ linen. But beyond these do- 


6 


BROKEN WINGS. 


mestic endowments — thanks and praise be to God for it ! 
— they had no especial talent or gift whatever, unless it 
may be called a special talent to keep up, as they did 
amid very difficult circumstances, a personal appearance 
that was the perfection of neatness and order. 

But the eldest — but Nina — poor girl! She, like her 
father, was too “highly gifted.” 

That she was “highly gifted” was matter of general 
and familiar statement and pride; but if anybody had 
been forced to determine precisely in what these vague 
and exceptional gifts consisted, it would have been found 
pretty difficult to do so. The only thing clear was that 
these gifts disclosed themselves in a — perhaps preliminary 
—stage of confused aspirations and unconcealed discontent 
with life. But she was, at all events, the sort of person 
whom people speak of as “an interesting individuality,” 
decidedly no every-day type of being ; she was out of 
the common way, indeed “extraordinary,” it might be 
said; only, unfortunately, she was only “extraordinary” 
enough to feel uncomfortable in ordinary circumstances, 
not “extraordinary” enough to be able to transform 
those circumstances to something suiting her better. 

As to talents of a positive and particular kind, she had 
but one, and that in a very small way ; she played the 
piano prettily, with very defective technique, but with 
expression, though that was rather peculiar to herself 
than deep or true. 

But nothing came of that. The time came when she 
really tried to overcome the technical difficulties of the 
instrument by persevering, but, unhappily, excessive 
practicing, the result of which was that she permanently 
disabled her third finger. This deprived her of all the 
hope of a successful artistic career, with which she had 
for a while flattered herself. And now her existence was 
without any tangible aim or end. 

But that she had a different and much more precious 
gift than her little bit of talent for music and the piano 
she had not then learned, and that was — great and even 
extraordinary beauty. 

Indeed, they were all more or less handsome in that 


BROKEN WINGS. 


7 


family, beginning with the mother, whom people turned 
to gaze at in the street, in spite of her gray hairs, too 
soon gray, so delicate was her profile and so lively the 
sparkle of her deep black eyes. So that Nina’s exterior 
did not so far draw especial remark ; besides, the family 
traditions, in which the baroness had been brought up, 
were somewhat narrow and severe, and it was no part of 
these to allow of anything that could induce their girls 
to pay particular attention to their forms and faces, and 
the baroness brought up her daughters in strict conform- 
ity to these traditions. 

Thus Nina dragged on, rather than lived, her life in a 
sort of tired way from day to day, and asked herself con- 
tinually, “For what?” 

Mother, sisters and brothers vied with each other in 
spoiling her, and were full of pity for her that she alone, 
of all of them, was wholly wanting in the power, so 
strong in them, of feeling herself at ease and even happy, 
as they were, in the unsatisfactory circumstances im- 
posed upon them by what was beyond their own con- 
trol. She could not but appreciate this patient goodness 
of theirs, and that it was scarcely deserved by her, and 
she was grateful to them for it, and showed her gratitude 
sometimes in outbreaks of passionately demonstrative 
affection, which, as a rule, ended in a violent outburst 
of tears. But even in the midst of her warmest and sin- 
cerest tenderness she was haunted by a certain sense of 
superiority over them, actuated by a certain tendency to 
the assertion of an intellectual preponderance over them ; 
and these faults, if such they were, she had inherited 
from her father. 

All this went on till she completed her four-and-twen- 
tieth year ; but nothing in her circumstances was altered, 
except that her brothers gained a step in rank which 
enabled them to send home ten, instead of five, of those 
painfully-saved small coins, and that a very highly- 
placed relative invited Nina to spend some time with her. 
This change enabled the girl to see something of life on 
a larger scale than she had yet known in any way, except 
what she might gather from the reading of novels ; and 


8 


BROKEN WINGS. 


the consequence was that she brought back to her home, 
with renewal of her physical strength gained by a visit 
all too short to satisfy, a diminished stock of patience 
with the poor circumstances of her home, which, indeed, 
now became insupportable to her. 

Even before this she had been subject to attacks of ner- 
vous irritability, but now these occurred with still greater 
frequency; then followed self-reproach, violent, even 
unmeasured. And it would have been difficult to decide 
which was the more painful to her family, the fault or 
the repentance. So, as might be expected, the time at 
last came when she could no longer endure the monotony 
of enforced leisure with no prospects of any kind before 
it. She startled her mother and sisters by declaring that 
she had made up her mind to go to Paris to perfect her- 
self in the language ; when she returned thence, perhaps 
she might be in a position to earn something for her 
family, and to make some return to them for the wonder- 
ful patience and love they had blessed her with in all 
these long years. 

The mother shook her head; the brothers declared 
themselves against the plan with as much heat as these 
good creatures could show; but Nina’s will was the 
strongest in the family, notwithstanding her variations 
of temper, due, indeed, only to nervous irritability. So 
she carried out her purpose with inflexible energy. 

One cf her former teachers procured for her a place in 
a French school, where she was to have gratuitous board 
and lodging; that is to say, that she was to give in re- 
turn two pianoforte lessons a day to some of the pupils. 
She took leave of her mother and sisters with many tears 
and kisses. As the cars started to take her away, they 
all cried to her: “Return soon, return soon, soon, soon !” 
She waved her pocket-handkerchief to them as long as 
they were in sight, and then fell back sobbing, as if her 
heart would break, on her seat. The train creaked and 
groaned like some horrible monster carrying off its inno- 
cent prey. But in the very midst of her suffering, which 
certainly was great— the suffering of a girl-creature feel- 
ing herself for the first time outside of the protecting 


BROKEN WINGS. 


9 


warmth of household and family life — she was conscious 
of a feeling of curiosity and expectation. When she had 
cried till she could cry no longer, she began to build castles 
in the air. Then, all of a sudden, there came back to her 
the voices of mother and sister calling to her: “Come 
back soon— soon, quite, quite soon!” And then she felt 
a strong impulse to throw herself out of the window of 
the car and run back after them through the cold, bare 
autumn night, back to them and to that narrowness of 
her home which was so full of love and of protecting 
guardianship ! When, oh ! when, should she see them, 
see that home again? 


Paris ! Paris ! She had read of it, she had heard so 
much of it, she had dreamed so much of it ! She had pic- 
tured it to herself now and again until it appeared to her 
mental vision in something like the palpable shape in 
which a believing Christian sees his heaven or hell. To 
her it was something strangely compounded of the at- 
tractive and the repulsive, something more like a fairy 
tale than anything else, something grandiose, magnifi- 
cent, something which needs must show itself at the very 
first glance utterly unlike and beyond everything else. 

She arrived about six o’clock in the morning, hungry, 
frozen to death almost, and found herself in an enormous 
and dirty railway station, in which the custom-house 
officers were soon busily pasting their labels in a dis- 
dainful and depreciating manner upon her little trunk, 
without opening it and vouchsafing a single glance at its 
modest contents. She had up to that day never arrived 
anywhere without having been met and escorted away by 
some one. A feeling of desolation almost choked her, 
and a sense of shame at her impoverished condition lay 
heavily upon her. A lady, with children and quite a 
large wagon filled with baggage, maid and servants, who 
had traveled on the same train with her, absorbed all the 
attention of every railroad employee, from the porters 
upward, in the neighborhood. Poor Nina was too shy to 


10 


BROKEN WINGS. 


stir or do anything for herself. At last there came along 
a commissionaire and asked her, with the amiable court- 
esy so often shown by Frenchmen to solitary and help- 
less women, however poor in appearance they may be, 
whether he could be of any service to her, and if she did 
not want a carriage. She burst into tears, and was ready 
to fall on his neck, so much was she moved by the fact 
that any one had a kind word to give her. A few min- 
utes afterward she was rolling away in a little yellow 
cab through a perfect labyrinth of streets to her destina- 
tion. In every direction round her she saw nothing but 
very tall and dirty houses, girdled about with many 
balconies of iron, and having a quantity of the shutters 
called jalousies. Wherever there was a gap between the 
houses there were walls placarded or painted with gro - ' 
tesque advertisements ; everywhere there was damp and 
slipperiness ; the air was filled with a sort of foul odor. 
There was cold white fog, which seemed, as it were, 
creeping over the damp, black stones. There were a few 
lamps not yet extinguished that seemed to have been 
making a night of it and forgotten to go home, and 
looked melancholy enough with the long dark intervals 
between them. The very morning looked like Melan- 
choly itself. And now and again she saw crawling along 
some tired and highly-rouged woman, and, following in 
her footsteps and trying to overtake her, some man in 
a white, dirty blouse, staggering along, just out of some 
evil drinking-shop. 

And this was Paris ! 

This was the haven of good Fortune ; this, into which 
she had flung herself body and soul, in full expectation 
of drawing the first prize in its lottery. 

Madame Legrand’s boarding-school was situate at 
Neuilly, in a house standing somewhat apart from other 
buildings and in the middle of a garden. The shutters 
were still closed, and it was clear that all its inmates 
were still in their beds when the yellow cab with Nina 
and her poor little trunk pulled up at it. A servant-man 
opened the door after awhile, and disclosed a hall some- 
what small, but which was kept carefully clean. She 


BROKEN WINGS. 


i: 


paid the cabman, and the servant lifted the little black 
trunk to his shoulder. A woman, with a white cap and 
a big blue apron, came out of a side door opening ontc 
the hall. 

“Is it the new German teacher?” asked she. 

Nina, for the moment, did not understand her. 

“The new pianoforte teacher?” asked the woman, 
speaking more slowly and louder, and carefully pro- 
nouncing every syllable, evidently thinking that the 
foreigner did not understand her; “the new pianoforte 
teacher?” 

This time Nina did take in her meaning. 

“Teacher!” Up to this, moment, in spite of her pov- 
erty, she had still been Baroness Jewitsch with every- 
body ; that is to say, a person of exceptional position and 
the object of respectful attention on all occasions. She 
had never thought much about the point ; but, so far as 
she had done so, she came to this new life with the idea 
that she would hold a position of her own in Mme. 
Legrand’s boarding-school, too, and that she would be 
treated somewhat as a distinguished amateur musician. 
And now — pianoforte teacher, indeed ! 

The word pierced her keenly, but she nodded affirma- 
tively. The portress — for such was the woman in the 
white cap — who, it was plain, had come forward to re- 
ceive Nina respectfully, led the way upstairs to her 
chamber, where the man-servant, her husband, deposited 
her trunk. The chamber was immediately under the roof, 
and had a slanting ceiling. A part of it was so low that 
Nina, who was much above middle height, could not 
stand quite upright under it. The walls were painted 
with oil color of an arsenic-green shade; the floor wa ; 
tiled, and covered scantily with carpet, frayed at the 
edges, all the color of which had long been trodden out 
by numerous feet. The rest of the furniture consisted of 
a small iron bed, a table, a chair and a looking-glass. 
There was but one window, and it had curtains showing 
patches, indeed; but, at all events, just washed and 
starched, and clean enough. 

“We have done something a little out of the way for 


12 


BROKEN WINGS. 


mademoiselle,” said the portress, who was a good-tem- 
pered creature enough, and seemed to understand in 
some degree the extreme oppression of spirit under which 
the young girl was laboring. “Yes, indeed, quite out of 
the way. I washed the curtains myself, though washing 
day had not come round, and the other teachers haven’t 
got such a thing as a looking - glass. But we knew 
something about mademoiselle, and that she had been a 
little spoiled. But how pale mademoiselle looks? made- 
moiselle must surely be regularly frozen to death ! First 
of all, I really will go and get mademoiselle some break- 
fast. When one has something warm on the stomach 
one can take life much more merrily.” And the portress 
trotted off. 

In a short time she brought the breakfast. Nina, mean- 
time, had taken off her traveling-cloak and hat and 
washed the coal-dust from her face. 

“There, mademoiselle,” cried the portress, as she 
placed the breakfast upon the little table. Then, all of a 
sudden, after gazing fixedly awhile at the young girl, 
she struck her hands together and exclaimed: “Dieu! 
How very pretty mademoiselle is !” then she shook her 
head and added, in somewhat saddened tones: “But it’s 
a pity, all the same; it’s a pity, it’s a pity,” and left the 
room. 

Nina was half crazy with hunger, and sat down to the 
breakfast. What a breakfast ! A big cup of very thick 
porcelain filled with a gray fluid, on the top of which 
floated some milk-curds, a piece of stale, common bread, 
a tiny dish with some yellow, semi-fluid butter, and all 
these delicacies resting on a tea-tray, lackered green and 
bent in every direction. 

Though sickened nearly to death at all this, she did her 
best to swallow some of the hot, green fluid— whether 
coffee or cocoa, she could not distinguish— her head be- 
gan to swim; she took a small piece of bread and but- 
tered it. This, too, she could not manage to get down. 
Then, suddenly, the longing for her home seized her so 
violently that she felt as though she should lose her senses. 
The memory of her breakfasts at home came to her ; 


BROKEN WINGS. 


13 


there was nothing but a roll and some coffee, with milk, 
but the roll was golden yellow and cracked crisply under 
the fingers, and the coffee — why, special pains were al- 
ways given to Nina’s coffee. It was always strained 
carefully before they brought it to her, otherwise she 
would not drink it. And when Nina did not drink her 
coffee, the thing was something like a household catas- 
trophe, a family misfortune causing great agitation and 
excitement. 

For the first time in her life she realized to the full how 
utterly she had been petted and spoiled. Tears dropped 
upon the poor old twisted tea-tray, and she pushed it 
from her with a deep sigh. The words of the portress 
came back to her and shook her very soul : “Dieu ! How 
very pretty mademoiselle is ; but it’s sad, all the same, 
it’s sad l” And in the very depth of her misery a sudden 
thrill of delight went through her. “Pretty — pretty!” 
She went to the looking-glass. She saw a tall form, full, 
but not too full ; ample shoulders ; a slight waist ; red- 
dish-brown hair playing about her forehead in small, 
tender curls, just now a good deal rumpled ; large brown 
eyes full of fire ; a rich, soft mouth ; an upper lip a little 
too short ; cheeks rounded ; bearing and countenance both 
fraught with the somewhat melancholy charm that at- 
tends the young girl in whom the sensuous element is 
still utterly unconscious of itself and everything is mere 
innocent yearning ; and, added to all this, a gray costume 
which, modest as it was, seemed to become her in a 
marked degree, and a head of hair so rich and so 
finely arranged that a painter might have gone crazy 
over it. 

In a word, she stood there representing the very type 
and model of the Austrian woman of a certain class, and 
that all the more as being an officer’s daughter. And 
this type is the product of the strangest and most incon- 
gruent things— incongruencies of race, of nationality, of 
rank— which, in her case as with the others, had been 
increasing with each generation, and resulted in a prod- 
uct full of charm, a flower rich in bloom, a perfume 
and every beauty ; but which, alas ! alas ! required the 


14 


BROKEN WINGS. 


protective and expensive atmosphere of a green-house if 
it was to flourish in safety. 

For the first time there came with a sudden stroke into 
her mind the thought that possibly there might be some 
way of escape from all this misery — and that in a direc- 
tion which she had never sought. That beauty to a girl 
in her circumstances was anything but a happy privi- 
lege — a serious danger rather — was a thing of which she 
had had not the faintest idea. But the last words of the 
portress came back to her, those words added after the 
first admiring exclamation, and poor Nina shook her 
head seriously as she repeated them to herself, “But it’s 
sad, all the same ; it’s sad, sad !” 

But these words were distasteful to her, and she tried 
to put them away from her thought, and to enjoy with- 
out any such alloy those first words of naive and invol- 
untary admiration. Hope stirred its tired wings with 
that renewal of motion belonging to its nature ; and in 
the very midst of hunger, cold, longings for home, an 
expectation rose in her of an unknown something, some- 
thing full of splendor, full of wonder ! Poor Nina ! Poor 
Nina ! 


If anything wonderful was in store for her it would 
have to be waited for; but that the last words of the 
portress were only too true Nina was to learn very soon. 

A few hours later she was called down to Mine. Le- 
grand, and that lady began with a few obliging and 
amicable observations, which were, after all, cold and 
guarded, and consisted principally of instructions as to 
Nina’s duties in the school. And then madame came to 
the point to which those remarks had clearly been only 
introductory : 

“My dear young lady, I am sorry, indeed, to have to 
draw your attention to it, but your mode of arranging 
your hair is simply impossible, quite impossible, and your 
way of dressing is— well, to put it as shortly as may be— 
inadmissible.’’ 


i 


BROKEN WINGS. 


15 


The blood rushed to the cheeks of the young girl. 

“What do you mean, madame ! My hair and my dress 
are just what is usual with young girls in Austria,” she 
replied to the French woman. 

Madame was a lady of about fifty years of age, dressed 
in black silk made up, clearly of set purpose, in a very 
old-fashioned way, and her yellow, sharply-cut counte- 
nance was tightly framed in bands of hair carefully 
smoothed. She bit her lips and measured Nina carefully 
with a glance anything but benevolent from head to 
foot ; the lady was not at all used to being answered — it 
was quite a liberty. And she spoke now with a height- 
ened voice and very sharply and distinctly. 

4 ‘Austrian usage is Austrian usage ; but it is out of the 
question that it should settle what is proper for Paris. 
We are in Paris ; and your style in the hair and in your 
dress is absolutely inadmissible for a person in your po- 
sition. It will form part of your duties from time to 
time to accompany one or the other of my young charges 
when they go out, and it is not to be thought of that I 
should confide the young girls intrusted to me to the 
escort of a lady who would know only too well that some 
one wopld accost her in the street.” 

This was Madame Legrand’s last word. Nina had no 
course left but to withdraw. 

Half an hour later, as she sat crying bitterly in her 
room and trying in vain to summon up courage to write 
home, there was a knock at her door. She said “come 
in” in scarcely audible tones, and in there walked a per- 
son of her own sex, of about forty years old, dressed in 
black, large and angular, with intelligent black eyes and 
a countenance showing deep color and somewhat dry and 




stern features. 

“You are the young Austrian who was expected, isn’t 
it’ so?” she began, in a pleasant and somewhat deep 
voice. “Pray allow me to present myself to you as a 
fellow-countrywoman and colleague here. I am here 
under the same conditions as yourself, what they call ‘at 
par ’ ; that means that I don’t -pay for my board and 
lodging, but in personal services, my object being to 


16 


BROKEN WINGS. 


perfect my French. My name is Augusta Jaworsky. I 
am a Prague woman.” 

Up to that point the newcomer had spoken somewhat 
carelessly, even roughly, as though she meant to say, 
“Here I am ; if I can be of any use to you, I’m ready ; if 
you don’t want anything to do with me, that's all right, 
too, I shan’t worry myself about it.” Then she sud- 
denly fixed her eyes on Nina; her large countenance 
took an expression of indescribable, almost motherly, 
compassion. She opened her arms and drew the charm- 
ing creature, tears and all, to her broad breast. 

“You my colleague! You an assistant here like my- 
self?” she exclaimed. “Why, liow can such a thing be 
possible? Why, you look like a child, and like a prin- 
cess, into the bargain !” 

“Madame Legrand has told me that I look like a per- 
son who would be quite sure or quite well aware that 
somebody would speak to her in the street,” sobbed Nina. 

Miss Augusta Jaworsky took on a very serious counte- 
nance. 

“Unfortunately, unfortunately Mme. Legrand is only 
too right,” she replied, with a sigh; “but there is noth- 
ing in what she said to offend one, if her words be 
taken in the proper sense. Pray allow me to sit down, 
my dear child.” 

Nina cleared off her things that were on the only chair 
in the room and pushed it toward Miss Augusta Jaworsky, 
while she herself sank down, rather than seated herself, 
on the bed. 

“Madame Legrand might have expressed herself more 
amicably,” so began the Prague lady; “but she is right 
in the main. In Paris, grace and geniality in appearance 
and manner are allowed to women of the highest posi- 
tion ; but beside these, only to grisettes and— -something 
worse. ’ ’ 

It appeared directly that poor Nina, in spite of her 
considerable and ill-regulated reading, had but a very 
casual and indistinct idea of what a grisette was, and, as 
to the “something worse,” of that she had not the very 


BROKEN WINGS. 


17 


faintest idea. Miss Jaworsky sighed ; she explained the 
matter, but it gave her no little difficulty to do so. 

Then, while Nina, as red as she could be with shame, 
turned her face to the wall, she continued : 

“Girls in our position must not only not challenge the 
attention of the men ; they must positively do everything 
to escape from it if they — well, to put it plainly, if they 
want it to be quite clear that it is their purpose to remain 
respectable. As to me, there was no difficulty at all ; a 
kind Providence has taken the best of care of me in all 
those respects. But as to you, how you are going to 
manage matters so that the men’s eyes won’t be full of 
you, the Lord in heaven only knows ! There is nothing 
in that which can wound your feelings, not at all ; it 
is not your fault. Only, my dear child, were you obliged 
to come to this place ; was there really no other alterna- 
tive?” 

Nina sobbed. “Alas ! I had nothing to do at home, and 
so I became really an insupportable creature. I kept 
them all in torture, and they were so good and patient 
with me. I came here to improve myself, so that I might 
earn something later and make some return for all their 
goodness.” 

Miss Augusta Jaworsky was silent for a minute or two, 
and then asked : 

“Have you breakfasted yet?” 

“I couldn’t; it was too dreadfully bad.” 

“Well,” said Miss Jaworsky, “I couldn’t either at first. 
At the outset there is nothing for it but to get rather bet- 
ter food than the regular diet here.” 

Nina blushed and looked down. Augusta Jaworsky 
cleared her throat and then asked : 

“Have you got anything like enough to go on with?” 

Nina’s pride was up in arms against the over-straight- 
forwardness of the lady from Prague. She clinched 
her teeth and remained silent. 

Augusta Jaworsky shook her big, good-humored head 
in a melancholy manner. 

“You really must not take amiss my rough-and-ready 
way of coming to the point. Well, well, I needn’t have 


18 


BROKEN WINGS. 


asked; your finances are in a bad way, otherwise you 
would not have come here at all ; that’s certain. I was 
in exactly the same case as you, only I had this advan- 
tage over you, that I was no beauty, and that I am a loaf 
not baked with such particularly fine dough as you are. 
I declare, it cuts me to the heart only to look at you ! 
Now, don’t you cry; don’t cry, it will all turn out for 
the best. When I came here I had not a red cent in my 
pocket, and now I get on famously. You must set about 
getting some other work besides what you do in the 
school. You are musical ?” 

“Yes,” in a very small voice. 

“Perhaps you will be able to give one or two lessons 
outside. But, just look at you! You are as pale as 
death ! We must set about strengthening you up a bit.” 

Augusta vanished, but appeared in a very little while 
with a bottle of port wine, a glass and a stick of choco- 
late. 

“There, my dear angel, just you get a little strength 
for yourself,” said she, forcing the wine upon Nina. “I 
nave always something of the sort by me.” 

Nina drank with great satisfaction, and nibbled at the 
chocolate with great gusto. She enjoyed everything 
that tasted well ; agreeable sensations were quite to her 
mind every way. She was of a tender and sensitive bod- 
ily constitution, poor thing ! 

“Poor little fool ! poor little fool!” murmured the Ja- 
worsky tenderly to herself, and poured out a second 
glass of wine for the girl. 

Nina’s saddened eyes soon began to shine with their 
usual brightness for this little refreshment, and she 
looked ten times more seductive than ever as she asked : 

“And have you some other work outside?” 

“I? why certainly. All sorts of work,” the other re- 
plied with a laugh. “Three afternoons in the week I 
take the daughters of Countess Gebriani out for a walk ; 
three other afternoons I teach the sons of a rich stock- 
broker Latin, and at night I work at a glossary, which 
a learned Parisian has ordered of me for a new Sanskrit 
grammar. ’ ’ 


BROKEN WINGS. 


19 


“What? Do you know some Sanskrit?” asked Nina, 
nibbling her chocolate-stick all the while. 

“Oh, I know lots of things,” replied Augusta. “I’ll 
tell you what, I haven’t talents, and I haven’t beauty ; 
but I am a creature that people can make use of.” 


A life of routine now set in for her. Nina Jewitsch 
became accustomed to drink her cafe au lait with curdled 
milk in it, and also to intercourse with people who asked 
her boldly to her face how much pocket-money she had 
to spend every month. 

Moreover, she soon learned to feel a truly sincere love 
for the angular and heavy Jaworsky, who had loved her 
from the first. Augusta was a powerfully supporting 
staff to her from the outset. Without this friend she 
would have found life quite unendurable in the board- 
ing-house. Augusta’s room was in the attic, too, and 
next to Nina’s ; she brought her every day a glass of 
port- wine, presented her with a warm woolen cover for 
her bed — as Nina almost froze in the night — sat for hours 
on her bed for company when Nina cried for her home 
and mother ; sometimes, too, when the mice were too 
alarming. She set the mousetraps, too, and made her 
appearance in the middle of the night for the purpose of 
putting the mice caught to death, a thing Nina could not 
bring herself to do, while she was just as unable to with- 
draw her attention from the funny figures the mice made 
in the trap. Then Augusta went back to her own room, 
and while Nina lay quiet with her eyes shut in sleep, the 
Jaworsky, wrapped up in a heavy gray officer's cloak — 
her brother had been an officer in the commissariat re- 
serve — with knitted mittens to keep her wrists warm and 
a thick red woolen cap on her head, went on without 
flinching with her Sanskrit glossary till three or four 
o’clock of the morning. 

She got Nina pianoforte lessons, six lessons a week, at 
five francs a lesson, in highly respectable families, who 
belonged principally to the more well-to-do among the 


20 


BROKEN WINGS. 


manufacturing class. One of these was a coach -builder, 
sufficiently rich to possess a somewhat famous art collec- 
tion. 

“My dear child,” explained Augusta to her protegee, 
“your musical attainments are not high enough for peo- 
ple of better circles. But these people are proud of hav- 
ing their children taught by a baroness. I have dazzled 
them a good deal with accounts of your aristocratic po- 
sition, and I beg of you don’t be too unassuming with 
them ; that would only hurt things.” 

It was part of Nina’s duty, besides the couple of piano 
lessons which she gave every day, to play dance-music 
for two hours every Sunday afternoon in the school- 
room, where the pupils had an improvised ball. 

This sort of service seemed something almost menial 
to Nina, and was more painful to her than words can 
say. The dance-music was enough of itself to depress 
her spirits, and the noisy enjoyment of the school-girls, 
nearly grown-up girls, tried her nerves to an insupporta- 
ble extent. She shed tears nearly every time that she 
played. Augusta Jaworsky freed her from this torture. 
She asked and got permission from Mme. Legrand to 
substitute herself, and from that time forward, with all 
her amazing perseverance and a touch of quite amazing 
robustness, hammered away at waltzes, polkas and qua- 
drilles till the pupils had quite as much as even they 
wanted. As for herself, she seemed not to know what 
fatigue meant. 


A famous person in her way was this Augusta Jawor- 
sky. She had lost both parents. Her whole family con- 
sisted of one only brother, who had taken it into his head 
that he was to become a celebrated man, and who, till 
the celebrity came, was acting in the capacity of a loafer. 
Meantime, poor Augusta got together the stones which 
were to make a pedestal for him. She sacrificed her lit- 
tle property on the fellow, and now went on working 
hard to support him. What little portion of fancy and 
imagination she possessed all went to keep up her belief 


BROKEN WINGS. 


21 


In his future and in exaggerating his talents. In all 
other respects she was as far as possible from any tend- 
ency to take over-large views of things, and, apart from 
her wonderful goodness of heart, was of a rather dry and 
sober constitution of mind. She took persons and things 
just as she found them, without exacting or expecting 
much of them, and accordingly went through life in tol- 
erable tranquillity, forming no ideals and suffering from 
no illusions. 

She had a sound working character, without any sort 
of subtility ; clear understanding, without any particular 
fire or force of mind. Herself a perfect model of regu- 
larity and good conduct by temperament and training, 
she treated the weaknesses of her fellow-creatures with 
something more than philosophic tolerance, almost with 
cynical indifference. Nothing seemed capable of dis- 
gusting her physical or moral sense. 

Nina learned from her much which she would have far 
preferred not to know, about many of the female teach- 
ers, even about Mme. Legrand herself. Thia^lady, so 
Augusta told her in cold blood, had formerly been a 
great deal too much the friend of the highly-placed ec- 
clesiastic under whose patronage the school had reached 
its present flourishing position. 

“Of course, you won’t tell anybody a word of all this,” 
so she generally ended disclosures of this kind. 

“Not likely, indeed!” cried Nina. “It is bad enough 
to know anything about it myself; I sha’n’t be able to 
look Mme. Legrand in the face. I can’t help asking 
myself whether I ought to remain any longer in this 
house.” 

“Oh, if you have made up your mind to be off from 
Paris, the sooner the better,” replied Augusta; “ but if 
you have any idea of remaining in Paris, the more you 
change your whereabout the worse it will be for you. 
You’ll find the same sort of thing going on everywhere 
that you do here. The house is kept with all severe ex- 
ternal respectability, and you can’t expect more. Why 
do you trouble yourself about things that don’t concern 
you?” 


22 


BROKEN WINGS. 


“Bat— but,” said Nina, warmly, “the contaminating 
effect — ” 

“Oh, dear!” said Augusta, phlegmatically, “people 
like us must not be so shy and particular. We might 
just as well say we wouldn't go out in muddy weather. 
We’ve got to put up with things. Just clap on a pair of 
overshoes, hitch up one’s petticoats a bit, and then go 
through it as best one may and look out for one’s self 
not to get too much mud on one. If one looks about *at 
the other folks to see what they are doing or thinking, 
one’s pretty sure to slip and tumble in the mire before 
you know where you are.” 

This way of looking at matters Nina could not accustom 
herself to ; she went on feeling deep disgust for things in 
which she still could not help interesting herself more 
than was to be desired, while the same things inspired in 
Augusta neither interest nor disgust. 


Without laying herself out for it particularly, this 
most sensible Augusta had made for herself quite a posi- 
tion in the learned world of Paris. She was personally 
acquainted with Renan and Pasteur. Nina, who was also 
ambitious, begged her assistance in filling up the large 
gaps in her too purely aristocratic education. And Au- 
gusta provided her with reading suitable for the purpose. 

So it came to pass that Nina spent her nights aimlessly 
in reading things she could not understand. Augusta 
brought her works on philosophy, books whose highest 
achievement seemed to be the increasing of our doubts 
and the weakening of all our beliefs, even if they did not 
carry their readers into absolute infidelity. In the inter- 
vals between reading these she swallowed, with passion- 
ate interest, all sorts of romances, which she got for her- 
self from a circulating library, works whose principal 
interest it seemed to be to put a fair face upon such sins 
as had hitherto been the most repulsive of all to her. The 
consequence was that the moral sentiments which she 
had brought with her from home, and which were more 


BROKEN WINGS. 


23 


than usually precisian, even pedantic, soon fell into the 
most deplorable confusion and disorder. 

The excuses for departure from duty in these romances 
were only too clearly and attractively, even poetically, 
put ; the foundation reasoning upon which the necessity 
of virtuous self-restraint was built up in the works of the 
philosophers seemed colorless and every way unsatis- 
factory. All, or nearly all, the philosophers declared 
that it was a positive necessity to be virtuous ; but why 
that should be so none of them seemed to be able to show 
with anything like conclusiveness. 

At the outset, when these shakings of her soul began, 
Nina quieted herself with the thought that, at least, virtue 
was more lovely than sin ; but after a while she began to 
be not quite so sure of that as she had been. 

She was not a really wise or sensible woman ; decidedly 
not, although she had always passed for gifted. She be- 
longed to the order of women who never acquire intel- 
lectual standing-ground of their own, and whose capacity 
goes no further than to enable them to follow the leading 
of some energetic and able man, and so endow their ex- 
istence with some of the agreeableness and charm de- 
rivable from interest in matters of literature and art. 
And, accordingly, in the midst of all this confused and 
confusing thinking of hers the poor girl yearned uncon- 
sciously for the sympathy and encouragement of some 
being stronger than herself and of higher powers. 


She now gave regularly six lessons every week out-of- 
doors, at five francs a lesson. So she earned her hundred 
francs a month. Tbe first money saved she sent home, 
with what joy and happiness cannot be told. The next 
thing was to fill up the gaps in her wardrobe. After she 
had got new clothes it was natural that she should 
seek some opportunity of putting them on and show- 
ing them. At last such opportunity came. 

In the holidays there were no Sunday dances for the 
pupils. Nina, and Augusta, too, were able therefore to 


24 


BROKEN WINGS. 


have some of their Sundays for themselves to do as they 
pleased with. 

Augusta Jaworsky showed Nina the wonders of Paris ; 
the Louvre, the Cathedral of Notre Dame and the Morgue. 
And one day she suggested to her young countrywoman 
to accompany her to the Hotel Dronot. The e fleets of a 
celebrated Parisian courtesan, which were to be sold by 
auction the next day, were on view there. 

When Nina presented herself to Augusta all equipped 
for their walk, the latter opened her eyes as widely as 
might be, and Nina read in those eyes a certain surprise. 

“Do you mean to say that there’s something wrong 
again with my dress?” asked Nina, with a shade of in- 
jured feeling. 

She had been congratulating herself upon her get up. 

“ ‘Something wrong’ is not the proper word at all,” 
replied Augusta, shaking her big head. 

“Then why do you look at me in such a singular way?” 
asked Nina, in some heat; “my costume has nothing so 
particularly striking about it.” 

She glanced over her shoulder at the looking-glass. 
And, truth to say, hat, jacket and frock were all alike of 
a quite, faultless simplicity. 

‘ ‘Oh, there’s nothing particular to remark in the clothes, 
as such ; only — only — well, the fact is, that you are again 
too tastefully dressed for your position.” 

Nina bit her upper lip. 

“I’ll remain at home,” she exclaimed, and made for 
the door. 

Augusta stood in her way and stopped her. 

“Now, that is quite, quite silly. When you go out with 
me you can look just as aristocratic as you please ; you’ll 
only be taken for some princess who has got her maid 
with her as an escort.” 

So they went their way. It was toward the close of 
March ; the first breath of spring warmed the air and re- 
laxed the nerves. Even through the pavement, through 
the very asphalt, one might almost feel the feverish re- 
vival earth was undergoing in that season. 

Nina* had changed her style of doing her hair, had reso- 


BROKEN WINGS. 


25 


lately, though with some heaviness at the heart, pushed 
those locks and curls away from her forehead. This did 
not make her one whit the less pretty, only a little less 
immediately remarkable. 

One wanted a little longer time to take in the fact of 
her beauty ; but when that was once done, that beauty 
was even yet more powerful in its working than it had 
been before. 

Nina did not know that as yet; all she noticed was that 
she did not attract as much attention as formerly, and 
the thought caused her some vexation. It seemed to her 
as if everything and everybody was conspiring to spoil 
every little bit of pleasure she could find in her life. 

When they reached the Hotel Drouot the extreme 
beauty of the belongings of the celebrated Mile. Blanche 
d’lvry interested her in a very high degree. She had 
never seen so many lovely and beautiful things gathered 
together in one place, except in the windows of the great 
shops on the boulevards. There was a table service of 
Sevres china, with monogram in gold; an extremely 
valuable set of glass sparkling in a fairy-like way ; arti- 
cles of silver and gold in profusion ; a few good modern 
pictures ; several copies from old masters, with subjects, 
mostly, rather too warm and luxurious ; a glass case full 
of brilliants and pearls — Blanche d’lvry had cared only 
for the white style of ornament ; a bedstead with Bernis- 
Martin decoration, the foot of which had a copy of Wat- 
teau’s celebrated “Departure for Cythera,’’ and on the 
bed itself lay, heaped up, clothes — velvet dresses, silk 
dresses, lace dresses. A particularly lovely pair of cos- 
tumes, one of point d’Alenconon a pale-rose ground, and 
one embroidered with gold and pearls, were hung on the 
walls, spread out so as to show all their enticements to 
the best advantage. 

Augusta Jaworsky went about among all these princely 
things with the same good-humored and phlegmatic in- 
difference which she maintained right through all her 
doings and thinkings. She did not excite herself about 
that poor sinner, Blanche d’lvry, and was neither daz- 
zled nor disturbed by all this splendor acquired in such 


26 


BROKEN WINGS. 


a shamelessly repulsive way. In her view, it was all no 
more than an interesting little episode in contemporary 
Parisian history, and matter for newspaper copy. It 
was not long before she had calculated exactly of what 
length the article might be made and what fee might be 
expected for it. While so engaged she put questions, 
from time to time, to the usher in charge, or scribbled 
memoranda in a big notebook she had brought with her. 
And then she went up to Nina and imparted to her some 
of the more intimate knowledge of the details of the affair 
which she had just acquired from the functionary just 
mentioned. 

“The glass set comes from the Duke of ; just look 

at the ducal crown so deeply engraved on it, and under 
them you’ll see the initials H. and B., belonging to the 
two names, Blanche and Henry. And this brilliant neck- 
lace was from the King of Holland. The story goes that 
it was this that caused the breach with Hortense 
Schneider. That fan was a present from the composer 
X. The D’lvry was, in fact, an extremely intellectual 
person, though she came up from people in very small 
circumstances, and she was a good-natured creature, to 
boot. She contributed a good deal, they say, to the sup- 
port and encouragement of young artists.” 

Nina exclaimed with some violence : 

“I can’t imagine what sort of artists they could be who 
let themselves be supported by her money ! If one does 
but think how that money was gained !” 

Augusta Jaworsky shrugged her shoulders and went on 
scribbling notes in her big pocketbook ; and Nina went 
on working up herself against the sins of Blanche d’lvry, 
and: all the while making her eyes achie by looking and 
looking at the brilliancy of Blanche d’lvry’s diamonds. 
She was as full as she could hold of that hateful sort of 
horror which some women, whose souls are built upon a 
scale of small respectability, show to sinners of their sex 
—a horror in which, if you look narrowly, you will find 
some trace of an envious grudge. 

Curious people came in and out, principally men ; a 
good many journalists, a few business men, and a few 


BROKEN WINGS. 


27 


young coxcombs— young gentlemen who might, perhaps, 
have belonged to the circle of Blanche d’lvry’s acquaint- 
ance. The ladies present were nearly all foreigners. 
There was a very lean Englishwoman in mourning, with 
a crape hat that kept wobbling all the time on her head, 
and holding a little daughter, who might be fourteen 
years old, perhaps, by the hand, and taking the girl f rom 
one wonderful thing to another, and, to all appearance, 
fascinated by all this dazzling devilry. There was a 
small, stout, short-haired woman, Irish — to judge by her 
costume — who took notes in a pocketbook exactly lixe 
Augusta Jaworsky. While this person was in the full 
fury of note-taking, she suddenly stopped short before 
the white dress embroidered with pearls, clinched her 
fist and said : 

“You hussy I” 

Nina was standing somewhat apart by herself before 
one of the pictures, when something happened that sud- 
denly caused a change in her uncomfortable mood. She 
heard some one say in French behind her : 

“There she is; that one, I mean — a beauty, if ever 
there was one. I’ve rarely seen one to compare with her ; 
wait till she turns her head— and -just look at her eyes.” 

Nina turned involuntarily, and not without a little 
feeling of envy, to look out for the beauty so highly ex- 
tolled. Her glance fell upon a large man of dark com- 
plexion, who was staring at her with obtrusive admira- 
tion. Nearly all the men present followed his example. 

She was exceedingly confused, but could not repress a 
feeling of high delight, too — a triumphant sense of power. 
Augusta Jaworsky came up to her. 

“I have finished all I want to do, and am quite ready 
to go, if you are.” 

Nina left the hall with her. She held her head higher 
than ever ; she felt as if she were walking on air. 

“Just think of it,” said Augusta, when they reached 
the street; “every penny these fine things bring at auc- 
tion will go to the State.” 

“How is that?” asked Nina. “Fad this famous beauty 
no relations?” 


28 BROKEN WINGS. 

“Oh, yes; a brother in some small town or other — 
Dinan, if I am not mistaken.” 

“Is he in good circumstances?” asked Nina, somewhat 
sharply. 

“No, quite the contrary; he is a poor locksmith with 
five children. But he has refused most positively to have 
anything whatever to do with his sister’s belongings. 
Such things as that happen only in France ; they would 
be incredible to our folks at home.” 

“The locksmith rejected all this wealth because he had 
never seen anything like it, and had not enough imagina- 
tion to fancy anything like it,” said Nina, with a some- 
what sententious cynicism. 

The words sounded to Augusta like a quotation. She 
said nothing, but observed her young companion rather 
uneasily, and then burst forth with a sigh of impatience : 

“Did you notice it? Directly I lost sight of you, that 
very moment all the gentlemen present began to busy 
themselves with you and nothing else.” 

“Can I help that?” said Nina, loftily. 

“I really don’t know,” replied Augusta, in a low voice. 
“At all events, you really must not dress yourself so well 
when you go out by yourself. I tell you again, you look 
altogether too distinguished.” 

“As though there were not heaps and heaps of distin- 
guished American and English women who went out ‘ by 
themselves ! ’ ” 

“True ; true enough,” said Augusta. “But it is not the 
same thing at all. You have not the neutral, indifferent 
bearing of an Englishwoman ; people can see you observ- 
ing that you are observed, and, what is more, people can 
see that it gives you something more thqn satisfaction.’ 

Nina became as red as fire, and looked pained and 
wounded. 

Augusta Jaworsky was as fond of her protegee as any 
old nurse might be, just as tender and nearly as irra- 
tional, and she could not bring herself to pass by Nina’s 
ill humor without taking any notice or troubling herself 
about it. She could not help trying to cheer her up. , 

“Well, you may be flattered, anyhow, with the con- 


BROKEN WINGS. 


29 


quest you’ve made to-day,” she said. f ‘Do you know 
who it was that admired you so obtrusively at the Hotel 
Drouot to-day? It was the sculptor, Tessendy.” 

Tessendy was one of the greatest celebrities of Paris. 
Nina was fairly giddy with triumphant vanity. 

Augusta Jaworsky had not the least idea of the dis- 
turbance which she had so thoughtlessly caused in the 
young girl. It was the sort of feeling which she could 
not entertain herself, and therefore did not grasp the 
probability of. 

When we divine too quickly that some sinful sentiment 
is actuating our neighbor it is usually because the germ, 
at least, of the same sort of sentiment lurks in our own 
soul. 

“Do you know Tessendy?’’ asked Nina, with some 
effort, after a long pause. 

“Yes; and he came up to me and asked me who you 
were, and wanted to be presented to you,’’ replied Au- 
gusta. 

“And why didn’t you present him to me? I should 
have been really interested in knowing him !” said Nina, 
in commanding and somewhat vexed tones. 

“That is quite possible; but I did not think it advisa- 
ble. Tessendy is not the sort of acquaintance for young 
girls.’’ 

“You treat me as if I were a child in swaddling 
clothes,” said Nina, somewhat violently. “I assure you, 
I know perfectly well how to keep a man within bounds, 
if he were to try to pass beyond them.” 

“I don’t expect Tessendy would try anything of the 
sort with you; nothing of the kind,” said Augusta. 

Nina said no more, and fell into deep thought. Au- 
gusta suggested that they should walk a little longer on 
the boulevards, and have some slight refreshment at 
Boissier’s. She, poor thing ! felt herself richer than she 
was an hour ago in the consciousness of having a new 
article for a newspaper in her head. Besides, she never 
hesitated to spend a few modest coins when the idea of 
giving pleasure to anybody came in her head. She re- 


30 


BROKEN WINGS. 


quired so little for herself, so she always had something 
for other people. 

Nina had a sweet tooth of her own ; a lunch at Bois- 
sier’s always was the greatest of pleasures to her. But 
this day, in spite of the repeated and hearty way in which 
her good-humored friend pressed things on her, she ate 
scarcely anything, and drank only a couple of glasses of 
iced orangeade. 

During the night Augusta, who, wrapped in her gray 
military cloak and capped with her red turban was 
meditating on the opening sentences of her Hotel Drouot 
article, she heard, through the thin party wall separat- 
ing her chamber from Nina’s, violent sobbing. She list- 
ened to it a little while, shaking her wise head now and 
then, and looking at the pen which was idle in her hand, 
and then she laid the pen down and stepped into Nina’s 
little room. 

“Child, child, what does all this mean? Is this the old 
longing for home? The old longing, I suppose !” she ex- 
claimed, seating herself on the edge of her protegee’s 
bed. “I ^m sorry for you, dear, so sorry; but I am just 
a little angry with you, too. Don’t sob so ; don’t, it 
breaks my heart. Now just think. You’d either better 
go straight back and try to make yourself useful at home ; 
or, if you will drag on in this martyruom which you have 
taken on yourself out of love for your folks, you must, 
you really must, try to bear it more courageously. ’ Then, 
as Nina did not stop sobbing, Augusta went on in milder 
tones : “Now just think, only think, what a fine thing it 
will be wnen all this misery is ovei and you can really 
assist your dear ones with the fruits of your labors. How 
I should like to be there some evening when you return 
from youi lessons to your mother and sisters, to thai dear 
cozy home and those faithful souls, the lamp lit and 
everything nicely cleaned up, all the things set for an 
appetizing supper! Oh, dear me! if only there were 
such a delightful prospect open to poor me !” 

“Delightful prospect! you call that!'’ said Nina, with 
inexpressible bitterness. 

To this, however, Augusta Jaworsky did not reply at 


BROKEN WINGS. 


31 


all. For the first time, she was seriously dissatisfied with 
her favorite. She got up and left the room. She saw 
only too well that it was not longing for home that drew 
those tears from Nina. 

When she was back in her little room, she growled 
out : “Well, I thank the dear, good Lord that He had no 
mind to send me into the world with a prettier face than 
the one I’ve got ! A nice sort of gift, that beauty, I must 
say, when the only thing it does for you is to make you 
dissatisfied with everybody and everything!” 

Then she wrote her article and made it ready to send 
off; after which she laid herself down and slept the sleep 
of the just. 

But Nina sobbed the whole night through. Her good 
friend’s words had only agitated, not at all tranquilized 
her. That, then, was to be her future ! Such were to be 
her sources of satisfaction ! To give lessons in the capi- 
tal town of an Austrian province and fortify herself for 
the struggle every night with a ham sandwich, domestic 
chatter and a cup of tea ! If she could ever have brought 
herself to believe that her only prospect in life was of 
that sort, she would have thrown herself out of the win- 
dow that very moment and been done with it all ! 

The admiring glances of the great sculptor, the admir- 
ing glances of all the men at the Hotel Drouot came back 
to her. 

She became feverishly excited, and fell then into 
dreamy reverie. Why was it that her destiny was inca- 
pable of taking some sharp and brilliant turn? Such 
things did happen ! 


On their next free Sunday Nina asked Augusta to go 
with her to see the exhibition of pictures at the Salon. 
The good-tempered creature was ready enough to do it, 
all the more because she had a notion that the picture 
market would furnish her a fine field for extending her 
newspaper work. 

The sight of so many works of art produced an over- 
whelming effect on Nina, who had never seen anything 


32 


BROKEN WINGS. 


of the kind. Like all the untaught public, her interest 
fastened itself on the subject of the pictures rather than 
on their technical merits. Augusta Jaworsky, who, 
during her sojourn in Paris, had become quite distin- 
guished for her critical appreciation of painting, tried in 
vain to make Nina sensible of the special points and mer- 
its of the works that were conspicuously the best on the 
walls. But she seemed to have no sense of such differ- 
ences at all. Besides, she was obviously agitated and un- 
able to fix her mind on anything. She wandered in a 
restless way from one room to another, and presently de- 
clared that her eyes were positively aching with fatigue 
with all those violent colors, and that she would be glad 
to go below to the large and airy court, and sit down and 
rest awhile before the different pieces of sculpture. 

Kind Augusta consented, and it did not for a moment 
occur to her what it was that drew Nina so powerfully 
away from the pictures and to the sculpture. 

The little episode at the Hotel Drouot had quite gone 
out of her mind. It was only when she observed how 
restlessly Nina looked about in all directions until her 
eyes rested on Tessendy’s work that Augusta began to 
put things together and understand. 

Tessendy’s work represented a Bacchante playing with 
a tiger ; and difficult, indeed, it would be to determine 
which of the two was the more masterly creation, the 
woman or the brute. Nothing could be imagined more 
powerful and effective than the contrast between the 
proud, careless beast of prey, every muscle and limb in 
which was in repose, as if in conscious certainty that 
when they stirred they must conquer— and the woman ; 
she, statue though she was, was all one mass of sup- 
pressed longing and feverish agitation ; the very flesh on 
her arms, which were flung round the tiger’s neck, told 
the story as, no less, did the smile on her mouth. And 
strange, indeed, was the contrast between the eyes of the 
two. The eyes of the brute were wide open, and its gaze 
was fixed, firm and cold. The woman’s eyes were all but 
closed, and she was hardly gazing at anything exterioi 
at all. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


33 


The group seemed to be full of a strange, mysterious, 
almost uncanny, sort of life. 

And, to use the familiar expression, it was the “suc- 
cess of the year. ’ ’ 


“A masterly work, indeed,” said Augusta Jaworsky, 
scribbling some hasty notes in her memorandum-book. 
There was quite a crowd round them ; exclamations were 
heard like this : “There’s go, if you like. I call that life 
itself. Why, the thing positively trembles and vibrates !” 
There were also peculiar cant words uttered, belonging 
to the Parisiaii slang vocabulary applied to art, which 
Nina did not quite understand. But she heard and under- 
stood enough to be more than usually excited, and, in- 
deed, to go into a fit of dangerously high spirits. All of 
a sudden people stopped making remarks on the statue, 
and Nina caught words like these : “Ihere's a pretty one, 
if you like. Just look at her eyes. She knows what pas- 
sion is !” 

“Come along, my dear child,” cried Augusta, some- 
what impatiently. Nina followed her. 

“A particularly fine work of art, that!” said Nina, 
whose enthusiasm was of the ornate, half -silly order. 
Whenever she tried to put into words any impression 
which touched on regions beyond her thinking power her 
old-fashioned, merely sentimental and provincial educa- 
tion came at once to the surface. 

“Yes, it is magnificent, indeed,” assented Augusta. 
“The man is colossal, nothing less. The thing is evi- 
dently an allegory. I’m sorry for the pretty little Bac- 
chante ; one sees that she is going to be gobbled up by 
the beast before she knows where she is. Serves her 
right. What did she mean by coquetting with a tiger 
and showing off like that to him?” 

As she spoke the words, she noticed that Nina changed 
color. She looked round. There, coming straight to- 
ward them, was Tessendy. Hanging on his arm there 
was a woman, large of frame, blonde, stamped with a 


34 


BROKEN WINGS. 


distinction that was unmistakable, although it was now 
only the ruins of its faded self. 

He took off his hat. His glance rested for one fixed 
moment on Nina’s face, and then he passed by them 
without stopping to accost Augusta Jaworsky. 

“Who was that lady with him?” asked Nina. 

“That thing? I am not quite sure, but I fancy it is the 
Marquise d’ Orville, one of the many exaggerated and 
exaggerating creatures who run after him. He has been 
on too intimate terms with her for some time, they say.” 

Nina turned red. She knitted her brows and turned 
away her head. 

That night she got no sleep. A thunder-storm was in 
the air and did not break. It was insupportably close in 
her little room. 

At last she sprang up and opened the window. The 
perfume of the lilac, which was half-way in bloom, came 
up to her. A nightingale’s song sobbed in the bushes, 
and, in the distance, growled the thunder and the never- 
resting movement of Paris. 

Before she laid herself down again she went up to the 
looking-glass with the light in her hand. She loosened 
her hair and let it down in all its heavy splendor to roll 
over her bare shoulders. Yes, she was beautiful. How 
beautiful, indeed, she was ! 

And then there came suddenly upon her the burning 
desire that this beauty should be the object of some one’s 
admiration, the instrument of some one’s delight. 

She put out the light — and crept, shivering, back into 
her poor bed. She was ashamed of the thought, ashamed 
of that desire ; it seemed to her mere sin. 


Sin — sin ! What, after all, did that word mean? Con- 
science, duty, obligation, were they, after all, anything 
more than hobgoblins to frighten humanity withal, 
weaknesses invented and kept up in poor humanity by 
the unnatural influences of Christianity and what was 
called ‘ ‘civilization ?” 


BROKEN WINGS. 


35 


Surely human beings had a right to put out their hands 
and clutch at happiness and pleasure without the re- 
straints imposed by traditional teaching? 

Views of this kind had been seen — if thoughts so 
steeped in darkness ever can be said to be seen — again 
and again and again by the young girl in the printers’ 
ink of the many novels the poor thing had devoured. 

One Sunday she went with Augusta Jaworsky to a mat- 
inee at the Opera Comique. The piece was “Carmen.” 
The Gypsy and her unscrupulous violation of every sort 
of morality seemed to have on her side all the warmth 
of the public’s approval. When Michaela came on the* 
stage a lady who sat close to Nina cried out to a young 
man : 

“Ah! there’s the good, respectable woman of th^ 
piece ; and now we shall begin to be bored.” 

Augusta Jaworsky, who had heard this observation, as 
Nina did, laughed heartily at it. Nina nearly shed tears. 

“What’s the use of our giving ourselves all this pain 
and trouble about virtue when all people who have any- 
thing in them only make a mock of it, and think that 
it is mere miserable worry that brings in no return 
whatever!” she cried to Augusta, when the two were 
on their way back to Neuilly through the Boulevard 
Malesherbes. 

“But, my dear child, my dear child, what you are say- 
ing is mere folly and madness!” cried Augusta. “Just 
you try to go the same way as that Carmen, and you’ll 
soon see where it takes you.” 

“Oh, I dare say it wouldn’t take me very far,” replied 
Nina, warmly. “But the only reason why that is so i - 
that my native energies, my proper share of courage and 
force, have been spoiled or lamed by the wretched cir- 
cumstances of my life.” 

“It is not that at all. The real fact is that you stand 
upon a higher plane of moral development, and there 
fore you carry about with you, as every even moderately 
respectable human being does and must, a moral idea 
which you do not perhaps quite realize at this moment, 


36 


BROKEN WINGS. 


but which would soon make itself felt and revenge itself 
terribly if you were ever to sin against it or offend it.” 

But Augusta overrated the young girl in attributing to 
her any such views or principles as that. Nina, unhap- 
pily, belonged to that type of woman whose conscience 
and moral feeling are roused into activity not so much 
by transgression itself as by its calamitous consequences. 


At the end of June Augusta left the boarding-school. 
She had obtained a splendidly paid position in the family 
of some rich Americans, who were going to make a tour 
throughout Europe with her for a sort of guide and in- 
terpreter. 

The evening before she left that establishment she had 
a long conversation with Nina, and implored her, if it 
was any way possible, to return home. 

But Nina would not hear of such a thing. 

So the excellent old maid took leave of her favorite 
with tears and many heartfelt caresses. 


And now Nina remained alone, without a prospect of 
cheer or counsel to support her. She was no longer con- 
scious of any real desire to return home. The warm, 
fostering and petting atmosphere of that home was some- 
thing which she seemed to herself to have outgrown. It 
would now have been too utterly restraining and con- 
fining to her spirit. In spite of all the privations and 
exertions imposed upon her by her Parisian life, she 
had come to prefer it to the monotonous peace of her 
mother’s home. 

The holidays began ; Paris was empty. 

One day Madame Giroux, the wife of the well-known 
carriage-builder, to whose children Nina gave pianoforte 
lessens, asked Nina whether she thought she could make 
up her mind to leave Paris and go for a couple of months 
into the country and undertake the task of teaching the 


BROKEN WINGS. 


37 


two little daughters of the sculptor Tessendy the piano. 
Nina showed herself so visibly startled at this proposal 
that Madame Giroux felt it needful to add some excuses 
and explanations. 

“Oh, don’t be scandalized,” said she, in a good-humored 
way. “Tessendy has a bad reputation certainly ; but his 
domestic life is quite correct, and his wife belongs to a 
distinguished family. Besides, you will see little of him 
personally. The country bores him, and he spends but 
little of his time with his family at their summer home ; 
indeed, doesn’t even go there often.” 


Nina accepted the offer. At the end (of July she re- 
paired, with her scanty belongings, to Isle d’Avray, a 
little bit of a town on the Oise, where the summer home 
of the Tessendys was situate. 

A little gray bit of a town it was, with very few inhabi- 
tants, but covering a good deal of ground, the houses 
standing widely apart on both banks of the Oise. The 
principal feature of the place was an islet in the river, 
which was connected with both banks by a picturesque , 
old bridge with massive stone arches. 

Mme. Tessendy and her two daughters came to the 
railroad station to meet Nina. The little girls were pretty, 
lively and dark complexioned, resembling their father. 
Mme. Tessendy was blonde, and must have been hand- 
some at an earlier day. But now she had a tired and 
faded appearance, and her somewhat lovely face, with 
its sharply-cut features, was distorted by that embittered 
and hard expression often found in women who put up 
with humiliations inflicted by a husband as decorously as 
they may, but with constant inward revolt. She was 
something of an invalid, took no active interest in any- 
thing, and left all the housekeeping to a cousin of her 
husband, a somewhat elderly female whose inestimable 
qualifications, in Mme. Tessendy ’s eyes, was the all but 
perfect absence of any and every sort of female charm. 
For, as Nina soon noticed, the sculptor’s wife was tor- 


38 


BROKEN WINGS. 


tured with jealousy nearly every moment of her life. 
And it did not escape Nina that her beauty acted as a 
painful surprise upon Mme. Tessendy. She could not 
avoid, therefore, some anxiety and apprehension lest 
she might be dismissed at short notice on some pretext 
or other. But it was quite the other way. Mme. Tes- 
sendy exhibited the most amicable and friendly kindness 
to her. There were two reasons for this. In the first 
place, the sculptor was not there. He was for the mo- 
ment in London, whither he had been summoned to exe- 
cute the bust of some royal personage ; and in the sec- 
ond place, Mme, Tessendy was of decidedly aristocratic 
proclivities ; and what principally determined her, when 
Mme. Giroux proposed Nina as pianoforte teacher for the 
two little girls, was her lineage, and, above all, her title. 


After she had got over her first feeling of disappoint- 
ment at not meeting with Tessendy, Nina felt herself 
quite comfortable in her new position. Under the influ- 
ence of the dreamy, half-awake routine life of the coun- 
try town there came some alleviation of the fever which 
the fermenting atmosphere of Paris had kindled in her 
veins. Every thing wa3 enjoyment to her— the agreeable 
dwelling, the delicate table fare, the uniformly courteous 
and considerate behavior of everybody, the picturesque 
seclusion of the little gray town, set in its foliage of glim- 
mering greenery. 

Her duties were by no means exacting. They consisted 
in giving a couple of piano lessons to the two little girls 
every forenoon. For the rest, they all lounged away the 
time from lunch to dinner and from dinner to bed- time 
as best they might. 

In the afternoon, on account of the oppressive heat, 
they generally sat in the large, cool salon on the ground- 
floor, the windows of which were hung with pale-green 
blinds. They did some tapestry work, read novels, or 
listened to the gossip of some neighbor who came on a 
visit. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


39 


On such occasions the news was stamped with a cer- 
tain monotony. Monsieur Duval, the rich sugar refiner, 
had cancer in the stomach, and the report was brought 
each day, with due conscientiousness, of the articles of 
food he was permitted to take and how much of these he 
had been in a position to digest. Then there was Mon- 
sieur Rigaut, professor at the Lyceum, who had suddenly 
gone out of his mind and had had to be taken off to Paris, 
and who was just on the point of setting his house on 
fire when, very fortunately and at the last moment, they 
stopped his doing so. Then there was Madame Javalette, 
who had a new son-in-law in her mind, the only ques- ^ 
tion being whether she could manage, by hook or crook, 
to scrape together the hundred thousand francs necessary 
for the round sum which ought to go to her daughter for 
dowry. 

All these items of news interested Mme. Tessendy in 
the highest degree. 

Only, after the door was fairly shut upon the visitor of 
the moment, she would shrug her shoulders -and say of 
her : 

“The worthy woman ! The poor, poor thing !” 

After dinner they used to take a walk through the lit- 
tle town or in its delightful environs. 

And a singular little town it was. Little houses, half- 
asleep, with their green shutters, grass growing in the 
pavement of the market-place, a church with a wonder- 
ful old Gothic porch, with modern wings to right and 
left of it, which looked like imbecile pasteboard. Thirty 
years earlier the church had been all but burned down. 
And the townsfolk had made the best of the matter they 
could. On the principal street was the post-office, where 
two brown automata, bearing a vague resemblance to 
female humanity, toiled and moiled from early to late, 
while a man with a deep-toned red countenance sat on a 
bench before the house-door reading the newspapers and 
smoking a pipe ; a baker’s shop, where fresh cakes were 
baked regularly twice a week ; a whole street full of lit- 
tle villas, built by retired cooks, and known as “Turnspit 
Avenue,” every one of those tiny mansions having the 


40 


BROKEN WINGS. 


regulation little garden in front, with a little fountain 
and ornamental rock work, and a glass ball and the bust 
of the happy owner and tenant. 

And, amid all this small modern grotesquerie, traces of 
a different and feudal past ! 

A noble avenue of chestnut trees, which had, earlier, 
belonged to a castle of which, years ago, some Conde, or 
Conti, had been proprietor. The castle had long ago 
been leveled to the ground, leaving not a trace of itself ; 
and where it had stood was now a tavern, where, some- 
times, there was wild work. It had the repute of being 
a den of thieves and socialists, and, only a little while 
before, an eminent m urderer had been found and seized 
there — an event which flattered the pride of Isle d’Av- 
ray in an extreme degree. 

On the island there was, situate in the middle of a 
charming park, a sometime abbey, which was now the 
property of a danseuse considerably advanced in life. In 
her day she had been both notorious and celebrated. In 
public she had danced before a whole pit full of kings, 
and in private she had made more than one royal person- 
age dance exactly as she piped. And now she was only 
an old, shriveled bit of a thing, who, for lack of more 
extensive social circle, kept up a continual conversation 
with the little dog which she led about with a string, and 
who was glad enough when they let her pray quietly on 
Sunday in the darkest corner of the little church. For 
this was her only amusement now, and she was so glad 
to listen to the music, some andante of Beethoven or Mo- 
zart, played on a harmonium ! 

Nobody associated with her except the priest who had 
converted her, and to whom she gave much money for 
his poor. 

Several artists spent their summer in Isle d’ Avray. For 
the rest, the well-to-do inhabitants consisted of business 
people— tailors, shoemakers— who had made their for. 
tunes, and who tried to get together art galleries, or prac- 
ticed horticulture of the higher order, and who confined 
their social intercourse strictly within their own circle. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


41 


making no effort to visit with people of higher position 
and rise to it themselves. 

The useful cousin-housekeeper had many relations with 
these families, and Mme. Tessendy consorted with them 
a good deal, to break the tedium of her existence ; but 
she never failed to make them feel in some way the width 
of the social trench that divided them from herself. Her 
mother had been Lady-in-Waiting to the Empress 
Eugenie. 


A telegram summoned Mme. Tessendy to her father 
at Vichy, who was on his death-bed. 

Nina remained alone with the useful cousin and the 
two little girls. 

It was strange ! Her intercourse with this flat and 
conventional woman bad produced upon her spirit some- 
thing of the effect of a cold, wet compress. By the side 
of this dolt of a woman she had now learned to look on 
the world as average human creatures do habitually look 
upon it. The moral standing-ground of Mme. Tessendy, 
fortified on every side by conventionalities and preju- 
dices, was a source of less danger to her than the intel- 
lectually higher ground occupied by Augusta Jaworsky. 
If the point of view of Mme. Tessendy in these things was 
too low, that of Augusta was, on the other hand, too 
high for Nina. For it opened up to the view abysses 
which it required the greatest possible moral steadiness 
of head not to turn giddy and fall into. 

Mme. Tessendy had not been absent a couple of days 
before the old fevered sense of discomfort, the old inner 
habit of finding fault with things, of calling everything 
in question and longing for what was not, came up again 
in Nina’s breast. 

It was a close, sultry August night; the air was quite 
motionless, and filled with the mingled odors of the dust, 
dried leaves and withered roses. 

Nina was restless. She could not persuade herself to 
go and lie down. She had begun a romance of George 
Sand, one in which the confused aspirations of a most 


42 


BROKEN WINGS. 


confused time were the principal and prominent feature 
of the book. 

Augusta Jaworsky used to call this kind of book “po- 
etic wish-wash.” She cared only for those works of 
George Sand which she used to call “her fairy-tales,” 
such as “Mauprat” and “La petite Fadette.” Nina, on 
the other hand, had ravenously swallowed, just as soon 
as she could get hold of them, George Sand’s wildest and 
most un veracious rhapsodies, like “Indiana,” “Valen- 
tine” and “Lelia.” 

On this occasion it happened to be “Lelia” which she 
was brooding over. The excitement which the book pro- 
duced in her became so unendurable that she laid the 
volume aside and began to walk up and down restlessly 
in her small chamber. At last she remained standing 
before the open window and looked out. 

The moon rode high in a dark-blue sky, in which there 
glittered myriads of stars. Her light lay clear and sharp 
upon the white dust of the road which ran along the bank 
of the Oise, where the Tessendy’s house was situate. It 
shimmered on the dark waters of the river, on the gray 
arches of the bridge, on the white facades of the houses 
of the little town which were asleep behind their shut 
green jalousies, on the outlines of the old abbey, which 
rose high over the crowns of dark chestnuts and limes on 
the island. 

The soundless silence of the night was traversed by 
nothing except the cool rustling of the river’s waters. 
Besides that, nothing — nothing. 

Suddenly, the trees behaved as though a sort of shud- 
der ran through them, a strong rustling of leaves became 
audible — and then all was silence. A footstep presently 
might be detected by the ear— the light, energetic foot- 
step only a man could press the ground with ; and there 
was the humming of a little song half aloud, a nevr little 
song of Massenet’s which Nina knew well : 

“ How short is the hour 
In sweet love’s bower ! ” 

Into the clear, sharp moonlight there stepped forth a 


BROKEN WINGS. 


43 


man. He stopped at the Tessendy’s house-door. A key 
turned in the lock — the man disappeared in the hall. 

Nina’s heart beat as though it would burst. 

Next morning her little pupils informed her that papa 
had come home last night quite unexpectedly. He had 
dined at some chateau in the neighborhood and had come 
on foot to Isle d’Avray. 


“I am rejoiced to make your acquaintance,” said the 
sculptor, holding out his hand to the young girl with a 
sort of paternal courtesy. It was just before dinner in 
the large salon on the ground-floor, the most agreeable 
feature of which was that it opened directly upon the 
garden. A glass door, always wide open when the 
weather was fine, led to the very slight flight of steps. 

The sculptor had not appeared at the second breakfast ; 
he had made them send a sandwich and a glass of Marsala 
to his studio. And it was all that Nina could do to con- 
tain herself in her impatience. At last she was with him 
— the great sculptor Tessendy, the “Don Juan” to whom 
no woman was sacred and whom none could resist. She 
had equipped herself with a firm and determined bear- 
ing ; she had, so to say, buckled on all her armor. She 
had taken all her weapons of defense in her hand to 
parry any attack that might come — and lo 1 there was no 
attack at all. 

The “Don Juan” was a large man of dark complexion, 
with a quiet, searching glance in eyes that were clear 
and seemed predacious with a sort of gypsy-like distinc- 
tion pervading his decidedly handsome and faultlessly 
made person. 

The hand which he held out to Nina was well-groomed, 
large, powerful and warm. Nina had a strange and pe- 
culiar sensation when she laid her hand in his. She felt 
herself elevated, agreeably excited, and yet alarmed. In- 
stead of replying to his words of greeting, she made a 
slight bow and smiled shyly, a proceeding which became 
her extremely. 

The strong, inquiring glance of the sculptor’s eyes 


44 


BROKEN WINGS. 


softened, and his face took an expression of great kind- 
ness. Truth to say, when Nina behaved awkwardly her 
native charm seemed all the greater for it. 

“I have already heard a great deal of you,” said Tes- 
sendy. 

“Ah — from whom?” asked Nina. 

“From Mine. Giroux.” 

“What did Mme. Giroux say of me?” 

There came upon the sculptor’s face a smile just a lit 
tie provocative. 

“What did Mme. Giroux say of you? Why, that you 
had very fine manners, and that you played Chopin ad- 
mirably. As to the first point, the case admits of no 
doubt; as to the second, I hope to have conviction car- 
ried to me after dinner. ’ ’ 

“And pray how came you to discuss me with Mme. 
Giroux?” asked Nina, further. 

He wrinkled his brows reflectively, in the sort of way 
people do when they try to recall things of compara- 
tively little moment. 

“How came I to do that? Let me see — ah ! yes — it was 
a photograph of you which I saw somewhere about at 
her house, and which did not seem at all to belong to 
any face in worthy Mme. Giroux’s circle of acquaintance. ’ ’ 

“Mme. Giroux has always been very kind and good to 
me,” replied Nina, with a somewhat accentuated, almost 
warning, reserve, as though deprecating the irony which 
lay in the tone in which he had spoken rather than in the 
words. 

He looked at her keenly and closely. He was not at 
all accustomed to put up with anything resembling re- 
buke or rectification at the hands of young girls. 

“Oh, to me, too,” answered he, lightly. “She buys oi 
me all the things that remain too long on hand in my 
shop ; but that does not prevent me seeing that she is as 
vulgar as a woman well can be.” 

Then, turning abruptly away from Nina, he asked the 
useful cousin: 

“Athenais, I say, why don’t we go to dinner? I am 
scandalously hungry.” 


BROKEN WINGS. 


45 


And as dinner seemed to be delayed for some little 
while longer, he played and joked with his two little 
girls without seeming to trouble himself any further with 
Nina. 

And when dinner was over, not only did he keep aloof 
from her, but he did not appear disposed to put himself 
out of the way for her in the least. She had no use what- 
ever for her defensive weapons. He stepped out among 
the roses of the garden and smoked a cigar. 

Nina waited awhile and then sat - down, unasked, to 
the piano. She played a few mazurkas of Chopin, then 
a highly sentimental waltz of Strauss, faultily as regards 
technique, but with that feeling for rhythm which seems 
to be in the blood of all Austrian women — above all, if 
they have a Polish father and a Moravian mother. 

After a short time he came back to the salon and came 
nearer to listen. Her excitement imparted unusual 
warmth to her expression anu rendering — and then, she 
did look so very charming when she played. Her head, 
which seemed, as it were, luminous, stood out with such 
all but magical relief from the faded blue-gray and 
green of the gobelin tapestry which covered the walls of 
the salon, the hand and arm which looked out from the 
folds of the lace-bordered, clear blue muslin, were a little 
masterpiece of creation. 

The sculptor came nearer still to her. She let her 
hands fall in her lap and looked up to him. She had 
eyes, we know, of extraordinary beauty, and the look of 
reverent regard compounded with shyness which came 
up from them for an instant seemed to make her whole 
person quite bewitching. 

“That was a very pretty thing which you just played 
—very pretty,” said he, leaning his elbow on the lid of 
the piano. . “Very pretty. Was it Chopin?” 

“No; the last was a valse of Strauss.” 

“Ah ! music which I call as insinuating as the Devil— 
the sort of music in which you see demons lying in wait 
to catch angels 1” 

Tessendy was never without some word of ready wit to 
show of what intellectual stuff he was made of. 


4G 


BROKEN WINGS. 


Then followed a pause. Nina, in her vanity, would 
fain have risen to the height of the situation and shown 
herself as full of intellect and wit as he was ! If she 
could but have had the least idea how very little it mat- 
ters to a man of Tessendy s sort whether a pretty woman 
has intellect and wit or whether she has not ! 

At last she exclaimed : 

“Do you know what I was thinking of when I was 
playing?” 

“Well, what were you thinking of?” 

“Of your Bacchante with the tiger,” she cried. 

“Indeed, indeed; h’m! h’m!” His eyes began to 
sparkle and he examined her more closely. 

“You cannot think how much I admire the work !” she 
continued. “It is full of a sort of demoniac power ; it is 
full of magic; it — it is—” 

Enthusiasm of that kind, snapping, bird-like, at some 
expressions to get some vent for itself, he had encount- 
red only too often. He smiled lightly at the agitated 
“little woman” who was hunting about for words to 
convince him of her excited and elevated admiration so 
superfluously. As to her excitement, that was obvious 
enough to him without any words. His understanding 
was as flawless glass in its keen perceptions ; the cold 
understanding of a cynic, cold and incapable of being 
deflected by any softening of the soul— one whose illu- 
sions had all been utterly dispelled by the too pressing 
flatteries and followings of women. 

The situation was perfectly clear to him. He saw a 
young woman whose poor circumstances would throw 
great impediments in the way of marriage. He saw her 
to be one whose disposition and education forbade the 
idea that she would, for any vulgar, practical end, give 
way to levity. On the other hand, he saw there an im- 
mense amount of passionate feeling and beauty not yet 
publicly recognized, vanity only too great, highly sus- 
ceptible nerves, and very limited understanding. And, 
upon the whole, he concluded that she was one likely to 
be guilty of folly on a large and splendid scale ; one, in- 
deed, who regarded her own exaggerated feelings as a 


BROKEN WINGS. 


4:7 


sort of stock in trade; and who was, perhaps uncon- 
sciously to herself, highly desirous that the opportunity 
for such folly should present itself. 

She roused his pity ; but, at the same time, he could 
not help despising her a little. 

She went on : 

“I — I — really I was made almost ill by looking too 
much at that masterpiece of yours ! It shook my in- 
most being. I — I — can hardly realize that the great artist 
who created that work is actually before me, the very 
man ! Oh, how glorious it must be — to feel that one can 
do such great, great things, and to be able to enchant all 
human beings like that !” 

“Ail human beings !” he repeated, in a dry tone. “That 
is a large way of putting it.” Then, bending forward a 
little more to her, he added: “Human beings, taking 
them one and all, don’t care one red cent for all my per- 
formances ; and the noisy enthusiasm of that part of the 
public that does admire my works is just as much a mat- 
ter of indifference to me as the spiteful proceedings of my 
fellow-artists who envy me. But what really does help 
and comfort me is to see enthusiasm for what I do com- 
ing in the shape of light from a couple of such beautiful 
eyes as yours.” 

He took her hand in his, allowed it to rest there a little 
while, and then pressed his lips upon it. 

She was an Austrian woman, and therefore so much in 
the habit of witnessing that form of homage that she saw 
no harm in it, and" did not take it amiss. On the con- 
trary, she felt herself distinguished, and was proud of it. 

He saw well enough what was passing in her mind, and 
let his eyes wander over her frame once again, from head 
to foot. Then he allowed her hand to slip from his. 

“Do play a little more,” he said, abruptly, as he turned 
away from the piano and went into the garden. 


She certainly was a beautiful creature, and much to 
his taste. From the outset he had seen, even before they 


48 


BROKEN WINGS. 


came together, that she was only too accessible, and the 
perception of this fact kept his nerves quiet, and pre- 
served whatever passion was rising in him from being 
either too agitated or too obtrusive. In fact, this acces- 
sibility of hers induced Tessendy to make some strong 
effort for self-restraint and to remain master of himself. 

And there was this, too : — If her beauty fascinated and 
drew him, there was something else that kept him off. 
And this was the unmistakable marks of high lineage 
ineffaceably stamped upon every part of the girl’s being 
— a certain atmosphere of hereditary respect and dignity 
surrounding her, incongruous with and in some sort keep- 
ing down her foolishly exaggerated feeling and speech. 

However, this worked in two opposite ways. On the 
one hand, it heightened her attractions ; on the other, it 
made a barrier difficult to pass. For the moment he was 
determined that the barrier should be respected. 


Next morning his demeanor to Nina was polite, friend- 
ly, but he said very little, and, indeed, was somewhat 
cold. This “lasted” two, three days. The excitement in 
her, on the other hand, grew greater and greater, and 
became mingled with vexation. There was within her 
the sort of fever and ferment which enhances the bril- 
liancy of the eyes and deepens the carnation of the lips. 
Every time he saw her she seemed to him lovelier and 
lovelier. 

One day she came to him and asked whether he would 
not allow her to see his studio. He assented as kindly as 
might be. The same evening, when she was taking a 
walk with her two little charges on the bank of the Oise, 
he suddenly appeared, as though some spell of the twi- 
light had produced him, at her side. 

They seated themselves at the foot of one of the big 
willows that dipped their silvery brandies in the stream 
— that is to say, she did; for he threw himself down a 
little way off on the thick, rich grass, while the children 
frolicked about and looked for flowers. He began to tell 


BROKEN WINGS. 


49 


her the story of his life, from its outset. How he liad 
come to Paris, as poor and struggling a creature as well 
could be, but with a heart and soul filled with the deep- 
est, most serious artistic purpose and idealist aspirations ; 
how he had labored and labored until he made his mark 
and was — where he was ; and how terrible a price he had 
paid for this success in the utter loss of his ideal, loss of 
his belief in human beings, in everything that had once 
been most sacred to him. Life to him was now, he told 
the girl, an empty, vain, desecrated thing ; it was a hor- 
ror to him to produce works for the adornment of 
churches from which their God had quite departed ; and 
yet, even yet, the will-o’-the-wisp of the ideal had still 
such magic for him that he went after it like a crazy 
creature, if it came before him in any shape. And he 
yearned, oh, how he yearned, for sympathy — the warm 
sympathy of some woman who would shield him tenderly 
from the world, guard him from receiving the dreadful 
wounds it inflicted on him, from the degrading tempta- 
tions in which it abounded ! 

He had a stock of phrases of this kind always on hand 
to draw on for the confusion and befoolment of women 
ready to lose their balance. He did not even take the 
trouble to invent anything fresh. The whole thing was 
to him a sort of formula of talk which had to be me- 
chanically complied with and gone through. 

And his knowledge of women was too keen and dis- 
criminating to permit of his taking the first steps toward 
any one of them without feeling perfectly sure that it 
only rested with himself to take as many more as he 
should choose. 

Nina reminded him, shyly, of his wife. 

He looked at her almost angrily in the fading light. 
And then said, with some roughness : 

,f My wife ! You say that, although you are acquainted 
with her and know what she is ! I don’t suppose you can 
really have failed to see what sort of sympathy I can 
reckon upon at all times in that quarter. Well, I’ll tell 
you. If ever I have any mischance to mention to her, 
she brings her high family to the front at once, and in- 


50 


BROKEN WINGS. 


forms me that her mother had been Lady-in* Waiting to 
the Empress Eugenie ; and, if I have any success to an- 
nounce, she asks how much money it is going to bring, 
and goes to order new costumes from Worth.” 

Nina was silent. 

He frowned heavily ; then, with a movement of vexa- 
tion, shook himself up to his feet and walked away. 

Her heart beat too wildly almost to be borne. Fever 
ran through her every fiber. 

He had hardly gone twenty steps when she stood by 
him and placed her hand on his arm. 

“Monsieur Tessendy, why are you angry with me?” 

“Nay — angel that you are!” He shrugged his shoul- 
ders. “I am not angry with you at all; only, only — I 
had thought that I had before me a woman unlike her 
sex, with a heart as mature as high. And you are only 
a child — a very dear, lovable child, but still only a child ! 
It was my hope that you would be able to enter into the 
cruel heaviness and bitterness of my lot, understand it, 
sympathize with it. Well, I was mistaken; I see it. I 
am sorry — but I do not take it amiss in you, believe me.” 

She put her hand upon his arm again. 

“You do me injustice,” she nearly sobbed. “I have 
understood you perfectly, understand it all. My heart 
bleeds for you, but what can I do to help you?” 

“Well, just now what you can do is to put up with me 
as patiently as you can when I am with you,” he mur- 
mured, drawing her hand to bis lips. “And, indeed, 
there is something in your presence that is most healing 
and soothing to me.” 

He led her back to the willow tree under which they 
had taken their seats, and lay down on the grass a little 
nearer to her than before. 

He rested his face on both hands and gazed up to her. 
She had taken off her little hat, and the children came 
dancing up with a wreath of wild flowers which they had 
just made. They placed it on her head. 

“My God! how lovely she is!” cried the sculptor, as 
though speaking only to himself, and then he added : “If 
you wish really to be kind to me, sit to me for your bust. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


51 


Two or three sittings will be all I shall want ; and then, 
at least, I shall have some memento to last me my life.” 

“If you wish it, I will, gladly, proudly,” she replied. 

All round them there was perfect, quite soundless si- 
lence. The children were tired out, and ceased their 
chatter. Under the pressure of the heavy-laden evening 
air the flowers in the meadow began to droop their heads 
to earth. Nothing was heard but the light sobbing of the 
river as it rustled on its ever-eager way to the sea. 


It had to be : and it came suddenly — so suddenly ! 

Everything that she did for him she did with pride 
and joy. 

She loved him very soon with mad passion, passion 
that seemed consecrated almost in her poor vision by 
the exaltation of its aim. 

So deep was her illusion, so dark the bandage before 
her eyes, that she did not for one moment feel how low 
it was she was sinking as long as she could feel con- 
vinced that he, on his part, loved her. She felt herself 
lifted up above her kind — seemed greater to herself. As 
to what was to come further of it, she did not give it a 
thought. He loved her ; that was enough ! 

She was beautiful, certainly, and her devotion flattered 
him ; but his feeling for her, not too warm even at first, 
cooled momentarily ; and then she began to tire and bore 
him. Unhappily, the situation was one which she could 
not grasp or understand ; and her over-exalted views and 
feelings about him and their relations simply humiliated 
him. 

The bust of her, which he set about modeling in brown 
clay, grew to be a masterpiece under his hand ; and, in 
fact, it soon became very much more interesting to him 
than the original. 

Did those about them really observe nothing of what 
was going on in the Villa Tessendy? 

It is difficult to suppose so. 

As for him, he kept himself well and firmly in hand ; 


52 


BROKEN WINGS. 


bufc as to the girl, as is the case with most women when 
their feelings are very deeply engaged, it was quite other- 
wise. There was a fire and light in her eyes that told 
all too plainly of her passion. 

One day when she was giving Tessendy a sitting for 
this too dangerous bust in the studio, his wife came in ; 
and, with one quick glance, she took in the whole state 
of the affair. 

And this led, without a moment’s delay, to a rapid 
and radical change. 

• Certainly Mme. Tessendy did not raise any scandal; 
such a course was entirely repugnant to her aristocratic 
methods of procedure. Scenes likely to attract the at- 
tention of neighbors to the sore and wounded places 
of a marriage were, in her eyes, indecorous, or, as she 
expressed it, bad form. That sort of thing might pass 
with washerwomen, perhaps. But she took very strong 
ground on the point of keeping order in her own house. 
As to what went on outside of the house, to that she was 
comparatively indifferent. 

And this time it was all the easier for her to have her 
own way as Tessendy offered little resistance. 

She expressed a wish that he should leave Isle d’Avray 
next morning and return to Paris ; and he complied. For 
the present Nina remained there with Mme. Tessendy. 
And Nina felt herself wretched and ashamed when in 
Mme. Tessendy ’s presence, just as though she had taken 
advantage of her absence to steal her jewels. She was, 
as might be expected, restless and racked with anxiety 
as to the future ; but she was as far as possible from be- 
ing prepared for what that future was really to bring. 

With Mme. Tessendy it was quite different. Her man- 
ner to Nina was more formal than before, but not less 
polite. From ore hour to another Nina looked with grow- 
ing impatience for intelligence from Tessendy. 

At last, on the third morning after his departure, she 
received a letter by the post, and saw that the address 
was in his handwriting. 

All sorts of undefined hopes and expectations came 
crowding confusedly to her heart. He would want to fly 


BROKEN WINGS. 


53 

to Italy with her, at the least. He would divorce his 
wife, that he might be free to marry her. She would 
find in the letter words of the sweetest, tenderest comfort 
and consolation, words helping her to be patient, and 
entreating her not quite to forsake him. 

Then suddenly — the letter had been handed to her when 
she was with the others at breakfast — she encountered 
Mine. Tessendy’s glance, which was fastened upon her 
and seemed filled with a quiet and triumphant irony, 
almost of scorn. 

Mme. Tessendy pushed her cruelty so far as to oblige 
Nina, on one pretext or another, to postpone the moment 
when she would at last be free to read the letter. First, 
she asked Nina pressingly to take a little walk with her ; 
then she made her play some Chopin to her ; and when 
Nina was engaged in playing, she actually put this ques- 
tion to the girl : 

‘ Did you play much of Chopin to my husband? He is 
exceedingly fond of it.” 

And while Nina put all possible constraint upon herself 
to answer as carelessly as possible, every pulse in head, 
hands, heart in her said: “She has guessed it all; she 
knows, she knows !” 

At last Nina was allowed to go. She dashed to her 
room and locked herself in with the letter. 

She read it twice before she could understand it ; that 
is, before she would admit to herself that she did under- 
stand it, and that only too well. It was long before she 
could fully realize that there was nothing there except 
what had disclosed itself at the very first glance, noth- 
ing of what she could not help, poor creature, trying 
again and again to find; no expression was there of 
genuine passion, no assurance of any sort of tender 
feeling for herself. She read the letter through a third 
time : nothing, nothing !— not even some charitable, tran- 
quilizing lie. 

The sculptor merely and dryly gave her to understand 
that it would be far better for her, as for him, to put a 
stop seasonably and early to a relation which, if it were 
allowed to drag on further, would be nothing but a 


54 


BROKEN WINGS. 


source of pain to both ; and then came something that 
sounded like excuses, and then something that looked 
like thanks — yes, actually and incredibly, thanks! And, 
by way of close, Tessendy begged Nina to regard herself 
as assured of his sincere and heartfelt friendship and 
“affection,” and to appeal to him always when he could 
be of service to her in any possible way. 

At last she understood it all, but it took her some time. 
And then, for the first time, she saw what had befallen 
her, all that had happened, in its true light, and that it 
was humiliation and degradation. 

The same evening she requested Mme. Tessendy to per- 
mit her to take her departure, which was granted with a 
stiff and dry assenting nod only. 


Next morning Nina left Isle d’Avray. She did not 
return to Neuilly, to Mme. Legrand’s boarding-school. 
With all that pain at her heart she could not bear to be 
with any of these strangers. She took a room on the fifth 
floor of a modest apartment-house for the moment, and 
then proceeded to look out for a more fixed abode. 

At last she found in the Rue Pasquier a niche which 
was in keeping with her means and all she could now 
pretend to. It was a chamber on the third floor of a 
furnished house, the people of which said that they were 
quite prepared to find her in board and at a very low 
price. 

The matter of board was one that signified a good deal 
to her now, for she was so cowed down with shame that 
she could not bring herself to frequent any of those 
small restaurants where poor artists of her sex studying 
in Paris, and many female teachers settled there, are in 
the habit of taking their meals. She never went out of 
doors at all. All day long she sat on her bed with her 
face buried in the pillows and wept, and wept. She ate 
scarcely anything, lost flesh and became pitiably lean. 

The waiter who came up every day to attend to her 
room— in furnished houses of the sort she was in, the 


BROKEN WINGS. 


55 


sleeping apartments are nearly always attended to by 
men— spoke quite paternally to her about it, advising her 
to try to pull herself a little together. Of course nobody 
could help seeing that mademoiselle had some great 
grief ; but if mademoiselle would only try to think it, 
she had hardly any idea what heaps of trouble might be 
buried away in people’s hearts and they be as fresh and 
merry as possible after the funeral was performed. And 
he sent up his wife, the cook of that establishment, to 
try and pacify her a little and force her to take some- 
thing to eat. 

At last she so far collected her energies as to repair to 
the Legrand school and inquire whether any letters had 
come "for her and give them her new address. 

She found a letter from her mother and a post-card 
from Augusta Jaworsky. Letter and post-card had both 
been to Isle d’Avray to try and find her, and both had 
been sent back, undelivered, to the boarding-school. 

Her mother’s letter she laid aside ; Augusta’s post-card 
she read at once. Augusta informed her that she and 
her Americans were for the moment stopping at the 
Grand Hotel, and that it would be a great pleasure to 
her to see Nina. She was to remain in Paris till the 1st 
of October, and then she and her party were to go, as 
fast as steam would take them, to Germany. 

For a few minutes she hesitated as to whether she 
would seek Augusta at all. She could hardly make up 
her mind to let herself be seen by this old friend at all. 

She dragged herself to her dwelling-place as well as her 
fatigue would let her, and there she read her mother’s 
letter. There was not much in it ; only love and tender- 
ness, that was all. In earlier days Nina had not known 
how to value these aright ; now she knew only too well, 
too well ! She would have been thankful could she wrap 
herself wholly in this warm, protecting, sympathizing 
love and tenderness; but now, now every one of her 
mother’s sweet, kind words, which would otherwise have 
done her such infinite good, went to her heart like the 
stroke of a dagger. 

Well, well, life was a thing that had to be borne with, 


56 


BEOKEN WINGS. 


dragged on to its end, one way or another. For a short 
space it seemed to her that she must leave everything 
just as it was and return home — only home. But that 
mood soon changed. Anything but that now ! anything 
but that ! Home, home? Never, never, never l 


She began to look round her and to inquire about the 
people who were under the same roof with her. 

The third floor, where she had found a resting-place for 
her feet, was divided into separate rooms, who changed 
their tenants nearly every day. The fourth floor was 
occupied by relatives of the people of the house. On the 
second there was a married couple from Brazil, the wife 
being afflicted with an incurable malady and not far 
from her death. On the first floor there were two women, 
highly rouged, with hair coming down almost to their 
very eyebrows. And, as Nina was informed by her 
friend the waiter, the furnished house belonged to one of 
these ladies, to whom it had been made over as a parting 
gift from some lover. 

The white-haired woman who- lived on the fourth floor 
with a half-witted husband was the mother of the two 
rouged personages ; and likewise ostensible mistress and 
manager of the furnished house. 

All these particulars Nina had from Francois one even- 
ing just before he left the house for good, having just had 
warning to leave, and that immediately, his offense be- 
ing that he had just smashed a soup tureen. 

At the same time, he intimated to Nina that, in his 
view, that house was not a suitable place for her to be 
putting up at, and strongly advised her to look out for 
something else. 

Nina gave him a little present of money, and saw him 
and his wife depart with anything but a light heart. For 
those two were the only beings in Paris whom she could 
look on as her friends. As to his disclosures about the 
house, she did not give them a second thought. What 
right had she, indeed, to be fastidious? she, of all people ! 


BROKEN WINGS. 


57 


/ 


Perhaps the truth was that it was not altogether so dis- 
agreeable to her that the people to whom the house be- 
longed had no particular claims to respect ; she need not 
feel any shame in their presence, at all events, who had 
sunk to a level so far, after all, beneath her own. 

All her silly store of distorted and perverse doctrine 
died out of her the moment it might have been supposed 
serviceable in furnishing specious justifications for her 
breach of settled moral laws. Now, when, if ever, it 
might have been some comfort and consolation to her, it 
slipped from her utterly. She could find no excuses for 
herself ; nay, she lost all the power of even trying to do 
so. She could not think at all consecutively ; all thinking 
was mere pain and grief to her. All that she could now 
do was to drag out her life as patiently as might be from 
day to day. 

She shrank to nothing in her own eyes, and was hum- 
bled, indeed. 

Even her beauty seemed to leave her. She had loved 
Tessendy, loved him to madness ; and in this flame, blaz- 
ing up to the very skies, the earlier fires of her youth, so 
long kept within bounds, had been merged and all her 
earlier life had been burned out and burned away in this 
last wild outburst of passion. Not a spark of her late 
feelings could she now detect in herself. After she had 
once come to see in what light Tessendy really did regard 
the situation, there was no passage, no moment of the 
relations between herself and the sculptor which she did 
not look back upon with sheer horror. 

It became every day more and more difficult for her 
to have anything to do with human beings at all. Little 
by little she spent the small savings which she had been 
able to put by when with Mme. Legrand. And day after 
day she postponed knocking at the door of any of her 
former pupils to ask whether she could not begin her les- 
sons with them again. She fancied that her shame must 
be written on her very face, and that she would be driven 
away from every threshold she should dare to attempt to 
cross. 

Then, suddenly, she came across Mme. Giroux in the 


58 


BROKEN WINGS. 


street, when, one evening, she had gone out for some 
small necessary matter. 

“You here, my dear child ! ” cried the coach-builder’s 
wife. “Why, I thought you were back in Austria long 
ago.” 

“No — I— I—” stammered Nina, and could not bring out 
another word. Happily, the loquacity of Mme. Giroux, 
which knew no bounds, saved her the trouble of saying 
more. 

“I was told that you were back in Austria, told by — 
by — now, who was it that told me? Why, Tessendy, of 
course ; no other than Tessendy. I don’t see anything of 
the ladies of his family, of course ; the idea of such a thing 
— a simple tradesman’s wife like me ! But, all the same, 
one knows pretty well how old Debray made all that 
fortune. That was Mme. Tessendy’S grandfather; but 
that’s neither here nor there. Tessendy told me that you 
and his wife did not get on together at all, and that she 
did not behave prettily to you. Jealous, I dare say — 
that’s like her all over. We all know what she is. The 
truth is, that I was sorry I recommended you to her after 
it was too late. Well, it was an unpleasant experience 
for you ; but, at all events, it’s over. I am delighted to 
have got hold of you now. How delighted the girls will 
be ! Come to-morrow and breakfast with us, and then 
we’ll have a good talk about the lessons.” 

While the good-natured soul went on with her chatter, 
she still held Nina’s small hand in her thick lump of a 
paw. In other days the poor woman’s vulgarity had al- 
ways kept Nina in a state of reserve ; but now she could 
see nothing but the real goodness of heart, and she drew 
the thick “paw” to her lips. 

“Dear, dear, dear! My poor child!” exclaimed ma- 
dame. “Why, you are crying; I am afraid that you’ve 
been badly trifled with— badly treated, perhaps ! Mind, 
you come to-morrow and spend the whole day ; we’ll try 
to amuse you and shake you up a bit. Adieu; there 
comes my omnibus. Mind, to-morrow !” 

Madame Giroux, like many well-to-do people in Paris, 
was very strict about her omnibus. Getting hold of that 


BROKEN WINGS. 


59 


vehicle at the right time, and taking the right one for the 
right place, was almost part of her system of religion ; 
there was nothing of which she was more careful. 


Nina lay nearly all night awake in her bed, with its 
blue woolen, musty-smelling curtains drawn all round 
to hide her better from the world ; and she sobbed and 
cried and her teeth chattered with fe\ erish cold. Con- 
science, blunted for a while, came to life again, and did 
its work upon her with tenfold intensity and sharpness. 
Had she any right now to mix herself up with the family 
life of these good, honorable people? After what had 
happened, ought she to allow herself to be pitied as 
though she had had wrong done to her, she who had so 
bitterly sinned against others? 

What was she to do? What was she to do? If she was 
to live respectably among her kind at all, she could not 
help lying, in word or in deed ; and, if she cried out her 
shame from the roof-tops for all the world to hear, what 
would be left to her but to pass her life among creatures 
to whom such a thing as had befallen her was a mere 
every-day matter; or, to sever herself from her fellow- 
creatures altogether and seek refuge in the cloister. 

Both these alternatives made her shudder. Death 
would be far preferable ; yet, bitter as her life had been 
made for her, she could not induce herself to bring it 
willfully to a premature end. 

The only thing that seemed left to her was to lie — to 
lie as best she could, and take upon her shoulders the 
oppressive burden of the respect and esteem which she 
no longer deserved. 


Mme. Giroux took her under her kind charge in every 
possible way, loaded her with presents, all but entirely 
supported her, procured for her another dwelling and a 
great many pupils. 


60 


BROKEN WINGS. 


Nina soon gave eight or nire lessons a day. And, as 
she had now no pretensions or desires for herself, she was 
able to save a good deal of money. 

One day she sent quite a considerable sum home. And 
she found some pleasure, at last, in doing so. And some- 
thing like tranquillity came into her spirit ; a sort of half- 
sleep took hold of her so disturbed soul. She now stopped 
her reading altogether. Her days were spent in going 
from one lesson to another ; and when time allowed, she 
saved even the omnibus money. When night came, she 
mended and patched her clothes. 


All might have gone well, were it not that her health 
began to get worse every day. She thought that her 
tired feeling and frequent attacks of giddiness were due 
to poverty of blood, and tried to take iron. 

She looked out with no little anxiety for her mother’s 
answer to her money remittance. It was two days later 
in coming than she expected. When it did come, it was 
so full of heartfelt love, and, besides, contained such 
good news, that she was affected to tears. 

“My dear, dear child,” wrote her mother, “the post 
has just brought me the two hundred francs you sent us. 
Oh, you silly, sweet thing 1 How you must have put 
yourself about and worried yourself to get the money to- 
gether ! I have cried over it and kissed it again and 
again. Dear creature, good, dear thing! I am not in 
want of your poor, dear little savings, God be thanked ! 
And I’ve put it away for yourself, just as I used to do, if 
I any ways could, with the starvation pennies of the 
boys, which I always used to lay up for the purpose of 
making them some big present which they least expected. 

“There is, however, some ‘unexpected outlay’ that has 
to be made for an unexpected gift ; but the occasion of it 
doesn’t need waiting for or seeking at all. Think of it, 
dear. Rosie is going to be married. Fred Kaden— he is 
in the Montebello Hussars— proposed for her the day be- 
fore yesterday. He has not very much of his own ; but 


BROKEN WINGS. 


61 


there is an uncle with property, whose heir he is to be, 
and who says he is ready to give the usual guarantee or 
security * to the War Office for our Rosife. As it is quite 
a nice match, Aunt Betty is going to furnish Rosie her 
trousseau. You can imagine what a state of delight we 
are all in. The children send you all imaginable mes- 
sages. They are sitting at this moment on the sofa under 
the ‘crinoline bush’ — as our mocking-bird Jack used to 
call it. They’ve got hold of one another’s hands, and are 
telling each other for the tenth time that they have been 
fond of one another for five years, and that the only thing 
that has held them back was the fear that they might 
make their hearts still sorer than they were, and other 
peoples’ hearts, too. And the very moment one’s back 
is turned, one hears a kiss. Fred is just honestly and 
straightforwardly silly. Rosie pretends to be a little 
more rational, but it’s only pretense. 

“And now you’ll be able to see pretty clearly the use 
to which your savings will have to be put, dear. Just 
this : to pay the expenses of your journey home and to 
dress you up as prettily as may be for the wedding. For 
pretty you shall be. And that will come easily to you ; 
you were always our Beauty, my darling ! Bring some- 
thing nice with you from Paris — I — oh, well, I never 
could keep anything from you ! I have something under 
way for you, quite, quite specially important. You guess 
what it is at once, you clever thing, don’t you? 

“The wedding is to be at the end of January or the 
beginning of February ; the day not yet fixed. If you 
want to please us, come home for Christmas, and we’ll 
all light up the Christmas tree together. The boys will 
be able to get all necessary leave. And if my plan suc- 
ceeds, then — you won’t be able to leave us any more. 

“If that is not to be, and you are determined not to 
give up the independent position you’ve made in Paris, I 
shall make my way thither to you and do your house- 


* In the Austrian army officers who marry are required 
to give security that they will not leave a family unpro- 
vided for. 


62 


BROKEN WINGS. 


keeping for you, and cut and cook and spend my little 
income with you. But, first and foremost, do come home, 
and that soon, soon, soon ! When we once have you with 
us, we’ll see to all the rest of it. 

“Fred asks if we are not going to have supper soon. 
He’s always hungry, but the most unpretending creature ! 
I must go to the kitchen. With a thousand kisses, thine 
own true Mother. 

Tears fell from Nina’s eyes upon the letter, many, bit- 
ter tears. 

It was morning, and, when this letter came, she was 
about to put on her things in order to go to her daily les- 
sons. What should she do? She had become inured to 
the false position in which her life found itself — a posi- 
tion forced, false, artificial, forever excluding disclosure 
of the very truth. And whether this burden of falsehood, 
or, to put it as mildly as might be, insincerity, was 
dragged on through life in one place or another place, 
what difference could that make to her now? All joy, 
all delight had died out of her heart forever ; and what 
she had to see to now was that she should not mar the 
pleasure of others. She smiled a melancholy smile at her 
mother’s transparently simple plan and her wish that her 
child should be more than usually pretty for the wed- 
ding ; and as she smiled her tears fell all the faster. All 
that was over, she said to herself — over forever ; but she 
must go home for the wedding, at all events. As to what 
was to happen after, whether she was to remain in Paris 
or seek for some field of work in Austria, all that might 
be settled thereafter. 

Meantime, she needed to make haste not to be too late 
with her lessons. Her breakfast was there, but she had 
not touched it. Indeed, the very sight of food had for 
some days caused her nothing but disgust. When she 
was just going to slip on her waterproof cloak, the one 
which she usually wore in the street — the time when she 
made herself as fine as might be for the very shortest 
walk out of doors seemed long enough ago now— she ob- 
served that the window panes were all glittering with 
frost. She put the cloak away and took out of her trunk 


BROKEN WINGS. 


63 


a fur jacket she had there, which she had brought from 
Austria and had worn all through the previous winter. 

She tried in vain to bring the buttons together. There 
could be no doubt about it ; it was now much too small 
for her. 

For a moment or two she smiled in a melancholy way 
at this. “Can it really be possible that with all I have 
been going through, I can have been growing stouter?” 
she asked herself. 

She threw a glance at herself in the mirror, a thing she 
had not done for a long time, and she almost recoiled at 
what she saw. At first, it seemed to her as though she 
had some other person before her ; she could scarcely 
recognize herself. Was that really Nina? Everything 
about her seemed twisted out of place, her face was yel- 
low and her features distorted. At one dreadful moment 
even before this 3he had suddenly been struck with ang- 
uish and alarm. She had persuaded herself it could not 
be so — and now ! 

A cold shudder ran through her frame, and she turned 
giddy ; she felt as though she must faint. With all the 
strength left to her she dragged herself to the door, 
turned the key, and then sank down all of a heap. And 
when she came a little to herself, then, indeed, did it 
seem to her as though reality, in its most terrible form, 
seized her by the hair and dragged her violently out of 
the regions of dreamy pain she had so long traversed to 
suffer things worse than ever. 

What now? 

One possibility, one course of action after another came 
up in her mind, and she weighed them all carefully and 
patiently and with a clearness of perception she had never 
before commanded. One only course she dismissed from 
her mind at once, which would have been the first to be 
adopted by base souls in her position, and that was to 
have recourse to Tessendy. She was not long in forming 
her final resolution. 

There was but one possible and practicable issue — sui- 
cide ! Of this she could have no manner of doubt. It 
must be so ; she told herself so in a quiet, stern, inexora- 


BROKEN WINGS. 


64 

ble manner. Death was a horror to her, but under the 
circumstances it was the only course open to her. 

One thing only : it should not be before her sister’s 
wedding. She would not throw such a deep shadow of 
grief over her loved ones. 

As things stood, it was clearly out of the question that 
she should be present at her sister's marriage. But, to 
ward off suspicion, she determined to let it appear till 
the latest moment as though her purpose of joining them 
at the wedding were quite fixed ; and then she would 
telegraph some insignificant pretext — a sprained foot or 
the like — anything which might serve to show that she 
could not possibly travel. And then — then! 

It must be so ; it must ! No doubt was possible. It 
must ! 

That day she could not muster up strength enough to 
go out and give her lessons. 


Days, weeks slipped on ; days and weeks during which 
the thought of the self-murder she- meditated never left 
her save for a very short interval ; days when she was 
continually tortured by the idea that some one or other 
would divine her misfortune; days when letters came 
from home, each, from her mother and sister, filled with 
increasingly strong words of tenderness and love, and 
with more and more pressing entreaties to her to come 
home to them. And these letters seemed to embody in a 
sort of concrete shape all the deep happiness of her 
home ; they seemed to carry with them the very stamp 
and image of the family life, so full of protection if so 
narrow, she had formerly despised. They seemed odor- 
ous with the perfume of a purity, severe, even stern, and 
yet of childlike unconsciousness and simplicity. 

She replied to all these letters— but, Heavenly Father! 
how dreadful was the task ! Always to have to be de- 
vising some new prevarication, one lie after another. 

Meantime, she set about thinking over plans of exe- 
cuting her dreadful purpose. In what way could she rid 


BROKEN WINGS. 


65 


herself of her hated life so as to bring the least shame 
and discredit to her family? 

And so it came about that, at last, she sank into a sort 
of apathy. But there was one thought that blazed up 
fiercely and with mad passion in her too often ; and that 
was hatred for the burden which was crushing her to 
earth and driving her on to death. 

And the more tender she felt herself grow to the loved 
ones at home the harder and more cruel became that 
awful hatred. 

Thanks be to God, it was coming to its end ! The day 
was fixed; the wedding was to be the 25th of January. 
During all these latest weeks Nina, in spite of her poor 
health, had not omitted a single lesson, and was in conse- 
quence cruelly tired and worn. 

She forced herself, with some difficulty, to go to the 
big store, “the Louvre,” to try and find some sort of 
handsome white material for her sister’s wedding dress. 
She bought a very beautiful white silk, and a wreath of 
myrtle as well. 

Well, well! That was thought over and done with! 
And the thought had been pleasant to her, even in the 
midst of her cold, fixed despair. How well she could 
realize her sister’s delight when this present came to her ; 
the delight of all of them. And that, too, was over now. 
She wrote home saying that she should arrive almost as 
soon as the dress, and that she had sent it on a little be- 
fore coming herself to give Rosie time to make herself as 
fine as possible with it. 

Then, a few more days ; and at last, on the 23d of Jan- 
uary, she telegraphed to them : 

“Have broken my arm : journey impossible : well taken 
care of : remember me ! Nina.” 

After all this had been seen to, she began quietly to 
prepare what was necessary for the execution of her 
final purpose. 

She had procured some poison by some cunning, cir- 
cuitous device— a small quantity of strychnia. She was 
determined not to destroy herself in Paris, where she was 


66 


BROKEN WINGS. 


known, and where, in consequence, her poor corpse might 
be ruthlessly and shamefully discussed and written about. 
No ! It was her plan to leave Paris and stop a few sta- 
tions down one of the railroads. She would select some 
quite strange town and take another name ; and there, 
in some little hotel or other, she would do — what she was 
forced to do; 

But, first of all, she purposed writing to. her mother a 
letter in these terms : 

“Forbear to seek me. On this earth I am to be found 
no more !” 

“And, and” — so she said to herself — “if, after all, they 
do come to know where it was that the poor creature took 
her own life and breathed her last breath, and why she 
destroyed herself, they will at least be able to divine how 
terribly deep was my shame, and how careful I was to 
spare them all the disgrace I could. And perhaps they 
will forgive.” 

The twent} r -fifth had come and gone. She had sent 
one more telegram : 

“Most heartfelt congratulations to the young couple.” 

And now the appointed time was come. But, at the 
last moment, her purpose frightened her. She put off its 
execution from one day to another. 

She had discontinued her lessons, giving as her reason 
that she was going to Austria to her sister’s wedding. 
She was without occupation, except that of brooding 
continually over what she had determined upon, what 
must be. And she became at last possessed, even to 
craziness, by the horror of death — a horror in which there 
was something of the coldness of death itself, and in 
which there lived one warm spot only, and that was ha- 
tred for the burden— the horrible, ghastly burden, which 
was thrusting her out of life ; and this hatred tore her 
more and more. « 

But it must be ; it must ! 

It was quite early morning, and she was about to leave 
the house. She had packed her small satchel ; she had 
written the letter to her mother. The letter lay by the 


BROKEN WINGS. 


67 


small package containing the strychnine on the table. 
She was going to take both with 1 er when she went to 
the station— the letter to be posted, the poison to be kept 
carefully in her bosom till. . . . 

It was six o’clock. A light was burning on her table. 
Restless almost to madness, she had been unable to re- 
main in bed, and had risen so early to finish all she had 
to do before leaving ; and now she felt herself quite ex- 
hausted. Nearly two hours had yet to pass before going 
to the station. 

She laid herself down once more on her bed, leaving 
the candles alight. She had always been afraid of the 
dark. Poor Nina ! 

She could not keep her eyes open — and — all of a sud- 
den she was shaken from the sleep that fell on her by a 
noise — the rolling of a carriage — painfully audible in the 
deathlike morning silence. It stopped below on the 
street, before the house, almost under her very windows. 

She raised herself half upright with difficulty, and 
trembling with fright. A terrible thought started into 
her mind. 

Yes ; there was a ring at the door below — then — the 
mingling of voices — and then, now , silence. There were 
footsteps on the stairs ; footsteps of a man carrying some- 
thing heavy, and other footsteps which sounded more 
lightly ; and they stopped at Nina’s door. 

“It’s here, madame,” she heard the porter say. Then 
there was a ring at her door, and a soft, tender voice 
cried, amid tears and laughter: 

“Nina! Nina!” 

God in Heaven ! It was her mother’s voice ! 

Another moment, and they were standing face to face 
— the mother, with outstretched arms, all delight, hope, 
expectation ; her daughter, the very image of anguish 
and terror ! 

The porter asked if he could do anything more for the 
ladies. He saw that he was not wanted for anything 
further, so he put down the satchel and plaid shawl of 
the elder lady on the ground and withdrew. Mother and 
daughter were alone. 


68 


BROKEN WINGS. 


The mother’s arms had fallen at once ; she had not 
clasped her child to her heart. The feeling that some- 
thing was wrong, that some terrible, pitiable misfortune 
had happened, came over her at once ; but what it could 
be was all dark to her. She did not understand; she 
could not understand. There was only one thing plain 
to her, that it gave Nina no pleasure to see her. But how 
could this be? ; Why was it so with the girl? “Had the 
girl become estranged from her in so short a time as that, 
barely a 5 ear?” she asked herself . The mere thought cut 
her to the heart. 

She stepped forward into the small circle of light, with 
which the scanty flames of the candle on the table broke 
up a little of the darkness, and threw a searching glance 
on Nina. The light was very poor, and the girl’s face 
was all disfigured by tears, and the mother could discover 
nothing of the clear, firm, well-known outlines of her 
daughter’s form. Was this Nina? Could this be Nina? 

“Which arm is it?” she asked at length, in a voice 
that told only too plainly how deeply wounded and hu- 
miliated she was — how glad she would be to creep away 
and hide herself anywhere. 

Nina at first did not understand her. 

“Why, you telegraphed us that you had broken your 
arm !” murmured the mother. 

“Yes, that is so; that is so!” stammered Nina, with 
her hand on her forehead. ‘ ‘I thought that would frighten 
you less than if I wrote the truth. There is nothing the 
matter with my arm. The fact is, I fell very ill all of a 
sudden ; I thought it was typhus, and that would have 
alarmed you all too much !” 

“Oh, that vras it. You were not in the habit of telling 
lies before you left me,” replied the old baroness, and 
her voice now sounded almost hard. She stood and stood 
before the daughter, tall, upright, in her black traveling 
cloak, with the gray hair brushed back from the low 
forehead and her handsome, well-preserved face; and 
she kept her eyes steadily fixed on Nina— upon this al- 
most unknown, strange, singular creature, in whom she 
did her best to find her daughter. In vain, in vain ! 


BROKEN WINGS. 


69 


“I did it only for your sakes — I thought it would be 
best for you. But take off your things, mother ; I will 
make you some tea.” 

‘‘I have no wish to take off my things ; what I should 
like best would be to turn back and not stay one moment 
here ! ’ cried the mother. The poor thing had traveled 
all night, and was filled with fatigue and shame. 

Why, why was Nina so cold? She had with such joy 
anticipated Nina’s joy at seeing her. Her whole soul 
was seized with keen longing for some slight signs of 
heart, some tenderness. A longing for home took hold 
of the old lady and shook her fiercely in these strange, 
dreadful surroundings, among which her own child was 
the strangest and most dreadful surprise of all. She sat 
down, but only because she was quite unable to stand 
any longer. 

Nina came forward to take her hat and cloak. She 
thrust the daughter away from her almost with violence. 

“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t touch me! I don’t want 
your services. Girl, do you know, or don’t you, that 
you haven’t given me a single kiss to show that you are 
glad I’m here?” 

And Nina pressed her' ice-cold lips on the mother’s 
forehead, but the poor thing tried to put her away, say- 
ing, in pitiable tones : 

“Oh, you’ll never be able to make up for it — never, 
never ! There am I, traveling to you night and day ; the 
young people had hardly left before I was in the train. 
There am I, with my head full of this and that anxious 
thought for you, and nothing else ; thinking all through 
it how delighted I’m going to be to sit at your bedside, 
and be able to pet and spoil you as I used to ; thinking all 
the time, ‘Poor Nina ! poor, dear Nina ! what eyes she 
will make when she sees me.’ Yes — and what your eyes 
did say when I came I shall never, never, never forget ! 
The boys were right ; they said, bluntly, that you were 
making excuses so as not to come to the wedding, that 
you did not care a jot for our innocent pleasure and hap- 
piness ; it was all too small and humble for you. Quite 
right they were, quite ! Oh, my God ! I wish I was at 


70 


BROKEN WINGS. 


home again. Not one single night will I remain. I will 
travel back this very night, only I must have a shelter 
with you till I go.” 

Nina answered not one word ; and, as something must 
be done in the midst of her pain, she set about lighting 
the fire. Her mother had sunk down by the fireplace 
into the only easy-chair there was in the little room. 
Nina put the kettle on the fire, and sat cowering before 
it and gazing into the flames. And then she suddenly 
took hold of her mother’s hand, and kissed it again and 
again. The mother took her hand away sharply, yet a 
change came over her almost directly. 

After a slight pause, she said : 

“I’ve brought you something nice from the wedding— 
those little almond cakes you’re so fond of ; but I sup- 
pose all that is nothing to you now.” 

And as Nina got up and began to look about among the 
luggage, the mother added : 

“There, in the little basket !” Then she began to make 
little sounds of pain and impatience, clinched her hand 
convulsively, and pressed the knuckles against her teeth. 

The flame of the miserable composite candle became 
redder and redder, then paler and paler. It was hardly 
visible. It was full daylight. 

And then the whole miserable, poverty-stricken look of 
the little room Nina dwelt in was fully disclosed to the 
mother. She saw with amazement the wornout covers 
of the furniture, the threadbare carpet, which covered 
only a portion of the floor. How small it all was, and 
how low the ceiling ! Suddenly, something caught the 
mother’s eye which startled her excessively. On the 
table there lay a letter, and beside that letter a small 
package engraved with a death’s head and cross-bones. 
That "was poison — strychnine ! 

Nina was busied behind her back with unpacking. Her 
mother’s breath almost stopped ! She rose from her chair. 

“Nina!” said she, slowly. “Nina, come here!” 

Then Nina knew that the dreaded moment was come. 
To try and put it off would be useless, quite useless. Way 


BROKEN WINGS. 


71 


of escape there was none — none. She rose slowly and 
came toward her mother. 

She was carelessly clad ; her dress was without any of 
the devices with which she had so painfully and care- 
fully concealed the alteration of her figure. She trem- 
bled in every limb, and her head sank lower and lower. 
What would her mother say ; what would her mother do? 

The mother took hold of her daughter’s two hands, 
examined her from head to foot long and carefully. 
Then, with a hoarse, terrible, half -stifled cry of anguish, 
she let go of Nina, turned her face away from her child, 
and covered her face with her hands. 

For awhile the silence was unbroken by a single sound. 

Nina stood rooted to the spot as if turned into stone. 

Suddenly, the mother turned and faced her. 

What would the mother do? what would the mother 
say? 

Her mother stepped to the table, took the little packet 
of strychnine and threw it into the fire. Then she opened 
wide her arms and drew her daughter to her breast. 

“My child !” she sobbed, “my poor, unhappy child !” 

She did not put one word of question as to who it was 
or how it had happened. There would be time enough 
for that. 


After the first dreadful moment was over Nina’s spirit 
felt greatly lightened. 

Instead of reproaching or accusing her, the mother 
took all the fault upon herself. 

“I ought not to have let you come to this dreadful 
place all by yourself ; I ought not to have given in to 
your going from home,” said she, again and again. Then 
she reflected upon what was to be done. And she, who 
had never uttered a single lie her whole life long, set 
about weaving a whole network of lies to protect her 
child. 

It was in favor of Nina now that she had stopped all 
her relations with her pupils. As to returning to Austria 
with her, the mother could not possibly do that. So much 


72 


BROKEN WINGS. 


was clear; but she and her child could both disappear 
from the world together. 

She withdrew with Nina to a little place in the neigh- 
borhood of Paris. And she spent several months with 
her unhappy girl there. They took other names, and 
lived in two rooms which they hired from a woman who 
sold vegetables. All their letters were directed to the 
post-office. The baroness wrote to Austria to the effect 
that Nina’s health was so poor that they had had to leave 
Paris. This was easily seen through by their relatives at 
home; but, at all events, Nina’s position was made secure 
as far as the world at large was concerned. She would 
be in a position to resume her work — as soon as — as 
soon .... 

All day long they sat in their little room and waited, 
as best they might, for that which came nearer and 
nearer. No word concerning it ever crossed their lips ; 
but they saw clearly enough in each other’s face that it 
was the only thing in their thoughts. The mother aged 
rapidly in those few months— her hair turned white al- 
most visibly. Before this last terrible blow she had gone 
through life, in spite of all her trouble and work, upright 
as an arrow ; now her shoulders were bowed and her gait 
uncertain. 

On the daughter’s face there came, now and again, 
when she sat there dumb, too tired or too listless to busy 
herself with the usual needlework, an expression of 
hardened gloom. 

But she never spoke one word of what passed within 
her. All the feeling she was now capable of became con- 
centrated upon hatred for the burden which she bore 
about with her, and which weighed more and more 
heavily on her soul as the time went on. One thought 
only possessed her ; if only it would come into the world 
dead, dead ! 


At last : at last ! And it was in the early hours of a 
sultry June morning— after a terrible night ! 

There came to, Nina’s ears a small whimpering sound, 


BROKEN WINGS. 


73 


pitiful, almost ridiculous ; something like the cry of a 
young kitten. 

Something like fright — almost wrath — came over her. 
The child was alive. . . . 

The mother came up to her bed ; she had something in 
her arms looking quite rosy, and wrapped up in white 
stuff. 

“Don’t you want to have % look at your child? It’s a 
girl, and as pretty as can be,” said she, sadly, in half 
tones, and with a new tenderness in her voice. 

But. for all answer, Nina turned her face to the wall. 


The child was put out to nurse in a peasant’s family, 
not far from Paris. 

Nina returned with her mother to the city. They hired 
a little apartment in the Rue Taitbout, and took all their 
meals at home. The porter’s wife attended to all the 
rougher part of their housekeeping work. 

The mother’s little income relieved them from anxiety 
as to their livelihood, but not much more. Nina contin- 
ued to give her lessons. The presence of her mother 
made her position more satisfactory in the world’s eyes, 
and people placed more confidence in her than before. 
She was able to raise the price of her tuition,, and soon 
had every hour of the day occupied: She worked from 
early morning to late night, as long as she could stand on 
her feet. 

But between her and her mother the state of things 
-was not satisfactory. There was little expansion, and, 
indeed, their relations were somewhat strained. There 
was a grave something betweeh them which they could 
not bring themselves to speak about; and tl?.e knowledge 
that it was on the minds of both made the presence of 
each a restraint to the other. 

Joy, now, found no opening — no, not the least cranny — 
through which it could creep into that sad little house- 
hold-home it could not be called. And as to grief, all 


74 


BROKEN WINGS. 


the issues from which it might escape were closed up. 
None was open — no, not one. 

As each month came round Nina handed to her mother 
in a little packet the sum required for the child’s sup- 
port. But she never looked in her mother’s face when 
she did this, and never uttered one word. 

And so more than a year went by from the moment 
when Nina first heard that poor little, whimpering cry 
of her child. 

It was the middle of June ; some of her pupils had al- 
ready left for the country. 

About six o’clock in the afternoon, somewhat earlier 
than usual, she returned home. It had crossed her rec- 
ollection that it was the anniversary of her mother’s 
baptism. She stopped on her way to buy a wreath of 
roses and a little basket of strawberries— her mother’s 
favorite flowers and fruit. 

When Nina reached her home her mother was absent. 
That was a thing that had not happened since she and 
her mother had lived together in Paris. The porter’s 
wife told her that the baroness had left word that ma- 
demoiselle was not to be anxious if she arrived home 
first. Madame had some commissions that must be at- 
tended to at once. She would be back by supper-time. 

“Commissions! that must be attended to!’’ said Nina 
to herself. “What in the world can that be? Likely 
enough something for somebody at home.” And then 
she added: “And, alas! she is not likely to speak to me 
about such a thing as that.” 

She sighed, and gave the strawberries to the portress, 
arranged the roses in a vase, and seated herself by the 
empty fireplace, which now had the iron cover drawn 
over it. 

And, in fact, the mother had for some time now left off 
reading to Nina the letters that came from home. 

Nina herself now never had any letter from her rela- 
tives, and never wrote one to her brothers and sister. 

There she lay back in the easy-chair, with her empty 
hands in her lap, tired out, immovable, alone. The 
manifold noises of Paris, enjoying its high spring-tide, 


BROKEN WINGS. 


75 


reached even their sequestered street ; and a little of the 
light of the sun still lingered on the threadbare carpet at 
her feet. 

The house was very tall, and stood on ground some- 
what high, and was , as yet not wholly wrapped in dark- 
ness. 

The little time-piece on the mantel struck one quarter 
after another. The portress had laid the table now for 
some time ; yet her mother came not. 

At last a ring was heard at the door. The portress 
opened, and the baroness appeared. It was plain that 
she had hurried herself extremely not to keep Nina wait- 
ing. Her hat was all awry, her dress was in anything 
but its usual order ; but her eyes were sparkling with an- 
imation, her cheeks glowed, her lip3 were smiling. All 
her person seemed as though it had been warming itself 
at some private and peculiar sunlight reserved for her 
and for her alone. 

She had in her hand a big wreath of wildflowers, and 
a breath of fresh country air seemed to come from the 
old lady and everything she had on. 

Nina divined at once where her mother had been ; and 
a bad, angry feeling rose in her breast. 

“Have I kept you waiting?” asked her mother, sweetly, 
and in tones fresher and more cheerful than usual, tones 
which Nina had not heard for a long time, and which 
sounded like an echo from the old happy days. 

“I — I have been on a little excursion into the country. 
I’ve been to St. Eusebe to— to — well, just to have a look 
at the little one. It came to my mind early this morning 
that it was the child’s name-day.” (The little one had, 
in fact, been baptized on the same day as her grand- 
mother, and called, after her, Felicia.) “And .so, and so 
—well, I couldn’t resist going to see after the poor little 
creature. I bought her a row of amber beads, the same 
that all of you used to wear when you were children, and 
some cheap toys, which I bought on the street as I went 
along— a red figure of Punch, and some little bells. The 
poor little soul couldn’t contain herself for delight.” 

Nina grew paler and paler while her mother was speak- 


76 


BROKEN WINGS. 


ing. Every word went like a dagger stroke to her heart. 
How could her mother be so unkind ! How could she 
speak with such outrightness and such satisfaction about 
that creature ! Without taking any notice whatever of 
what the old woman had been saying, she took the vase 
with the roses from the mantel in order to put it on the 
table, which was laid for supper. 

The mother was a little sobered by her daughter’s cold 
manner, and went on, but in a much less lively way : 

“The little puss is the most engaging creature possible, 
so sweet that one could almost eat her, with a dear little 
shock of brown hair and big blue eyes, and just as full of 
life and love and roguishness as she can hold.” 

Nina made no reply. She stood there pale as death, 
with sunken head and her eyes fixed on the carpet, with 
the vase and the roses in both her hands, which trembled 
violently. 

Her mother went up to her, put her arm round her 
shoulder, and stroked her cheek gently, quite gently, just 
as one might some creature with a fearful wound, to 
whom one fears that every movement, however slight, 
may give pain. 

“Won’t you drive out yourself some day and have a 
look at the poor, poor little thing?” she asked, in very, 
very low, soft tones. The vase with the roses slipped 
out of Nina’s shaking hands, fell to the ground, and wa s 
broken in pieces. 

“Mother, mother, mother!” she groaned, hoarsely, 
clasping her temples with both hands. “Can you not 
see, oh ! can you not see how cruel it is to force the thought 
of the existence of this— this— creature upon my mind? 
I work for it, you know I do ; but as to thinking about it 
or caring for it, I cannot, I cannot !” 

And then Nina hurried out of the room and threw her- 
self, sobbing, on her bed. 

When she came back to the little parlor she found her 
mother kneeling down and rubbing the carpet dry with 
a piece of rag where it had been wetted when the vase 
fell. 

“But, mother !” remonstrated Nina, “why don't you 


BROKEN WINGS. 


77 


let Amandina” — that was the name of the portress— “at- 
tend to that?” 

“Amandina has gone out to fetch a bottle of Sauterne 
—she told me you had ordered Sauterne, and she had 
forgotten it.” 

“Yes, I ordered Sauterne, because it is your favorite 
wine — and I remembered that — that it is the day when 
you were christened. It was for you that I brought the 
roses, and I wanted to give them to you. But give me 
the piece of rag, dear mother, or wait till Amandina 
returns. ’ ’ 

“Oh, dear, it looks so dirty and ugly, the broken pieces 
and the spot in the carpet.” 

“What is there that does not look ugly in our lives,” 
murmured Nina, who had kneeled down by her mother’s 
side and took the rag almost violently from her hands. 

‘ ‘They are now nothing but spots and broken pieces ! Oh, 
my God, my God!” 

Amandina came back with the wine ; the roses and the 
strawberries were on the table, which was neatly and 
cleanl/ laid, and smelled delightfully. 

Nina had arranged everything for the meal with great 
care, and provided several little things her mother was 
particularly fond of. The mother noticed this, and was 
much moved. From time to time she said : 

“It’s excellent, Nina; really quite good, Nina. Do try 
a little bit. You are eating nothing at all.” 

Then she began to talk about the things she had seen 
in the streets, to try and lead her child’s thoughts, if pos- 
sible, in some other direction. But the task was one 
quite beyond her power. She felt it more and more. 
Her words came fewer and fewer; her speech became 
slower and slower. Bit by bit the poor woman’s shoul- 
ders drooped and became rounder and rounder. The lit- 
tle bit of joy which she had brought with her from her 
little trip was extinguished, slowly stifled by the dull, 
heavy grief, the heavy atmosphere of which always 
filled that small room. 

It became dark, and she soon was quite silent. Then, 
as the darkness grew deeper and deeper, something that 


78 


BROKEN WINGS. 


was not unlike tranquillity came upon her spirit, and 
Nina’s, too. So that when Amandina brought in the 
lamp, mother and daughter both felt the light as though 
it were a sudden stroke of pain. 


So things remained, in their old, dull routine, with 
only this difference, that now it often happened that 
Nina, returning home after her laborious day, found that 
her mother was not there. But when her mother did at 
last appear, excited, heated and yet depressed, she never 
uttered a word about where she had been ; not a word. 

But words were not necessary. The fresh smell of the 
meadows and the woods clung to her dress, and the ex- 
pression in her eyes, so moved and so tender, told the 
whole story quite plainly. On one occasion Nina ob- 
served on her mother’s dress a little, shining, curly, 
golden hair. She frowned angrily, and clutched at it to 
remove it. But the mother was too quick for her, and 
took the poor little hair, wound it round her finger and 
pressed it tenderly, tenderly to her lips. And, as she did 
so, she cast upon her daughter a serious, stern, disapprov- 
ing-nay, almost contemptuous— glance ; and, that day, 
vouchsafed her not a single further word. Yes, this 
same mother, who, when she arrived in Paris, had lost 
sight of her daughter’s shame in her daughter’s misery, 
and thought of nothing but throwing her protecting arms 
about her child. 


* 

From this unhappy moment something like enmity 
arose between mother and daughter; and this went on, 
taking all the time a sharper edge and a keener point. 
The mother was horrified by the hard selfishness of the 
daughter, and the daughter took it bitterly amiss of the 
mother that she persisted in occupying herself with the 
child, thus bringing constantly to her daughter’s mem- 
ory what she made every effort to banish from her mind. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


79 


The child was nothing to her, nothing except the living 
proof of her degradation. She held it in detestation, and 
would have been thankful to have it removed from her 
as far as the world’s' end. She had wished— yes, actually 
wished — for its death ; but, as it would not die, she was 
willing to provide for its wants, so far as was absolutely 
necessary, but grant it any the least part or share in her 
existence, she positively would not. Not a thought, not a 
moment’s feeling should it have. It was a thing she had 
quite done with. For her it existed no more. 

And yet, now the babe seemed to be the one pivot on 
which her mother’s existence turned. 

The mother was, at first, satisfied with a visit every 
fortnight ; then it increased to once a week, and, pres- 
ently, there was no week in which she did not return 
from these excursions at least twice, her eyes shining 
with that tender light and her clothes full of that keen 
and sweet odor of the forest and the wildflowers. Now 
and then she bought some little toy, a little rooster which 
opened its beak and crowed, or a sheep with a nodding 
head. When she came home with it, she would take it 
carefully out of the paper it w*as wrapped in, examine it, 
smile to herself, and handle it in the careful, petting way 
grandmothers havo with, the playthings they are going to 
give their grandchildren, and then wrap it very slowly 
up again, throwing sidelong glances at Nina the while. 

Once she brought hoine a little white dress, cheap, evi- 
dently, but very pretty. She spread it on her knees and 
began to fasten little blue shoulder-knots upon it. She 
played with it and worked at it in her sweet, coaxing 
way for some time, and it was plain that she did it to 
give Nina an opportunity of asking something about the 
child. But Nina said not one word. 

The summer heats came on ; nearly all Nina’s pupils 
had left Paris. 

One day the mother said : 

“We might just as well go and spend a few weeks in 
the country ; it won’t cost much, and will do you no end 
of good and divert your mind a little.’’ 

Nina saw at once what the mother was driving at, and 


80 


BROKEN WINGS. 


frowned heavily — a thing she was now only too apt to do 
— saying, in a dry voice : 

“You can do as you please. I shall not stir from where 
I am. Any change would only give me fresh pain. Di- 
vert my mind, indeed 1 What can divert me now? You 
might just as well say to a person at the point of death, 
‘ Get out of your bed and take some exercise ! ’ ” 

Few as the words were, Nina had not uttered so many 
for some time. 

The baroness answered, coldly : 

“I was not talking for myself ; I want no change ; and, 
in fact, country or no country, I shall have to go back to 
Austria before long, for Rosie will want me. I was only 
thinking of you. While I am away I should be only too 
thankful to know that you were somewhere or other 
where your thoughts might be led in a different direc- 
tion, and you wouldn’t brood and brood and brood as 
you do now.” 

“Oh, I know!” said Nina, slowly; “diversion and a 
different direction ! I know where you want to get me 
to go.” 

The mother uttered a cry of impatience, and turned 
away from her. 

In a little while Nina asked, gently : 

“When must you go home? ” 

‘ ‘Probably next week — I am only waiting for a letter 
from Rosie.” 

“When does Rosie expect— expect — it to happen?” 

“Early in August,” said the mother, who was evi- 
dently determined to say no more. 

Nina was silent. 

It had been many months since she had said a word 
to her mother indicating that she wanted to know any- 
thing about her brothers and sister.. 


Eight days later the baroness left. The day before 
her departure she went out to St. Eusebe. She brought 
back with her a little wreath of wildflowers, a poor little 


BROKEN WINGS. 


81 


bit of a wreath; the stalks of the flowers were quite 
short, and they had evidently been plucked by hands that 
had had little experience of such work. 

“Litzie plucked these flowers for you herself. She 
hurt one of her poor little fingers when she tore up one 
of the forget-me-nots. She sends you the little bit of a 
wreath with a kiss — and you ought really to go and see 
her while I am away/’ said the mother. 

“While you are away?” said Nina. “Is it your inten- 
tion to come back again?” 

“Of coarse. I wonder you can ask. My home now is 
with you; where else should it be — where else?” 

Nina accompanied her to the station, . and then returned 
to the Rue Taitbout, and climbed up the five stories to 
her little dwelling-place, with feelings quite strange and 
even indescribable. It was something like a relief to her 
to feel herself for a while, at all events, absolutely alone. 
Thank God ! at last there was no one to take notice of 
her. At last she was free to sob her heart quite, quite 
out. 

This feeling of relief lasted for one or two days ; and 
then she was seized by a terrible sense of desolation, a 
sense that amounted almost to fright, and the yearning 
for the home from which she was shut out forever shook 
her violently. 

In spite of the obstinate and harsh silence and ill- 
temper she had kept up and displayed during the last 
days before she was left alone, her mother had treated 
her as tenderly as ever ; but not a syllable had been said 
by that mother from which it could be gathered that she 
thought the daughter’s return home was a thing to be 
contemplated as even possible. That she should sacrifice 
herself for Nina was evidently a simple matter of course 
to her ; but to throw such a shadow upon the lives of the 
other children as would be cast by Nina’s going among 
them, that, evidently, she could not bring herself to in- 
flict upon them. Nina told herself this plainly ; and bitter, 
indeed, were her feelings as she did so. She was cut to 
the quick, and became almost ill with grief and vexation. 

What she so keenly felt was that her mother had not 


82 


BROKEN WINGS. 


made the least suggestion of her going with her ; she 
would, of course, have refused to comply, but her mother 
might, at least, have proposed it to her ! 

The mother had been away ten days. She had written 
as soon as possible after her arrival, and told all about 
the warm reception the young couple had given her, ana 
one thing and another ; and there was a postscript with 
these words : 

“Everyone sends you the warmest and most tender 
messages !” 

Every word in the poor letter showed what a struggle 
had gone on in the writer’s heart between tenderness and 
truthfulness, and the perception of this cut Nina to the 
very soul. 

She had no occupation for the moment, nothing to pre- 
vent her busying herself with her grief and nothing but 
her grief, and soon came to see only tod clearly that the 
relief which goes with the absence of any need for re- 
straining one’s self before others is one that lasts a very 
short time indeed. 

She had given up reading ; and bending over needle*- 
work, which gave her no pleasure, and which is so easy 
to some women, caused her giddiness. To go out walking 
alone was what she disliked. So she hardly knew how 
to kill the wretched hours that had to elapse between one 
meal and another. Her meals were prepared and set for 
her by the portress. And she began to take some interest 
in them as, at least, some relief to the monotony by 
which her weary soul was oppressed. 

She had just finished one of these meals ; and she went 
and seated herself in the usual place by the cold, empty 
fireplace, opposite to her mother’s easy-chair, which was 
empty, empty ! 

How she longed for that mother, with a longing 
mingled with anxiety, almost with dread ! Her glance 
fell upon a few withered flowers which lay upon the 
mantel, and remained strangely fixed upon them. 

“What was all that rubbish doing there? why had she 
not swept it away?” she asked herself. Then it came 
back to her that it was the wildflowers which that crea- 


BROKEN WINGS. 


83 


ture of misery and misfortune at St. Eusebe bad 
plucked for her. 

She pressed her hand to her forehead with angry vex- 
ation. Yes, she remembered now. Not to vex her 
mother she had refrained from throwing the flowers 
away ; but she had not been able to bring herself to put 
them in water or take any other care of them. So they 
had remained where she had flung them down. Was she 
always to be reminded of her degradation, always? And 
then, once more, and in more passionate shape than ever, 
the terrible wish broke out in her heart, more distinctly, 
more articulately than it ever had: “Oh, if it would but 
die. If it would but, would but die !” 

There was a ring at the door. She opened it. It was 
the postman. The letter was addressed to her mother, 
and bore the post-mark, St Eusebe. 

She shut the door upon the man with some violence, 
and then — threw the letter on the table. It was nothing 
to her — she cared not to. know what, was in it. She sat 
down with her back to the letter, and took a book in her 
hand to drive it out of her thought. After she had turned 
the pages from where she began, she asked herself what 
she had been reading about — and, absolutely, could not 
tell. 

She got up, took her hat and gloves, and went out to 
take a short walk to try and quiet her restless, nerves. 
When she returned, the little parlor was all gray-dark 
with the deepening twilight ; but something white glim- 
mered indistinctly through the lialf-darkness. That was 
the letter. She clutched at it, clutched at it with a small, 
sharp cry. Hardly aware of what she was doing, but in 
order that she might do something, anything, to allay 
her dreadful excitement, she tore it into two pieces. 

And, then, she felt as if she had struck herself at the 
heart, and every limb seemed as though it were failing 
in its duty. She stooped and picked up the pieces which 
she had thrown upon the ground, hastily lighted a can- 
dle, put the letter together and began to read it. It bore, 
that the little one had been seized with sudden, illness, 


84 


BROKEN WINGS. 


and the physician feared inflammation of the brain, and 
doubted whether it would get over it. 

That night she passed in a condition bordering on in 
sanity. It seemed to her as though she had killed the 
child with her own hand almost, by that horrible, horri- 
ble wish of hers. Next day she went to St. Eus6be by 
the first train. 

Impossible to describe the state of her mind as she 
went along the wretched, ill-paved village street, asking 
at one little shop after another where she should find the 
house of, the carpenter, Sulpice Marechal. 

“Oh, Sulpice Marechal — yes, that’s the man whose 
wife is taking care of that pretty child who belongs to 
some duchess in Paris that won’t have anything to do 
with it!” said a butter- woman to her. “Yes, yes; she 
knew all about her. She lived at the extreme end of the 
village in a house with a little garden. If madame 
wished, she would be quite pleased to take her there.” 

And, as she said this, the butter-woman gave Nina a 
sidelong, searching glance. It was clear that she began 
to have her own thoughts. But Nina was too preoccu- 
pied to notice her demeanor. They went on together. 

“They tell me the child is ill,” she said with difficulty, 
as they walked rapidly to their destination. “Do you 
know anything about its condition?” 

“No, ’’.said the butter- woman , “I don’t know anything. 
Is it really ill? The day before yesterday I saw it play- 
ing in the Marechal’s little garden. I always stop a bit 
to have a good look at it whenever I can, for it is such a 
charming little thing. Oh, dear me, dear me ! Love- 
children are always beautiful— nearly always; and then 
they have such a bad time of it in this world ; not a soul 
cares one jot about them. If they’re boys — why, then! 
But a girl, like this little Felicia, what’s to become of 
her, I should like to know?” 

And, all the way, she went on gossiping in the same 
strain : 

“That its own mother should put it away was a thing 
easy enough to understand ; she had good reason to do 
so, no doubt, mother or no mother ; but that she never 


BROKEN WINGS. 


85 


once came to see the poor little soul, that was horrible ! 
Didn’t madame think so, too? And the truth was, that 
she never did come — positively never. The village kept 
a sharp eye open about it, and they asked the station- 
master ; so they knew. There was only one old woman 
who came — an old woman who looked as if she was some- 
body, but was very simply dressed — and she came often.” 

“Does she mean this torture; is she saying all this 
really to punish me?” asked Nina of herself. She could 
hardly breathe or look up. 

“If the child is so badly ill, it is pretty sure to die,” 
went on the butter- woman. “Well, that will be a re- 
lief to the mother, and the best thing for the child, too.” 

“No, it is impossible that she can have any idea that 
I am the mother,” decided Nina.' 

They reached the Marechals’ house. It was built of 
gray stone, with a hanging upper story, had green shut- 
ters, and stood in a little garden with quite narrow path- 
ways between rosebushes and beds of lavender and straw- 
berries. 

Nina looked all over the little house with anxious eyes. 
Two of the shutters were closed at one corner. She was 
about to ring the bell, which she saw hanging by the 
house-door. 

But the door was suddenly opened, and a pleasant- 
looking little woman, with a stiff, starched and crimped 
cap over her dark, pretty face, came forward to Nina. 

“Don’t ring. The little one’s asleep,” she said, in a 
half-whisper. 

Nina stepped forward into the little hall and took tight 
hold of the Frenchwoman with both hands. 

“She is not dead?” she brought out, in scarcely audible 
tones. 

“Oh, dear me, don’t I tell you that she is asleep?” 
Then Mme. Marechal turned and shut the door, which 
had remained open. “And who may you be who have 
come to ask about her, I should like to know?” ‘said she, 
looking Nina straight in the eyes with a peculiar glance. 

“I— I am its mother,” Nina wanted to say ; indeed, the 
words almost forced themselves from her heart to her 


86 


BROKEN WINGS. 


lips. But prudence closed her mouth before she gave 
utterance to them. It was not for nothing that her life 
had now for two years been one continuous lie — lie when 
she spoke, lie when she kept silence. Her proud temper 
had learned the lesson of evil submission to inevitable 
falsehood. And now she dragged that burden along with 
her on her path, mechanically, almost unconsciously. 

“I am the daughter of Mme. von Jewitsch,” said she, 
all but inaudibly, “and as she is away on a journey, I 
have come in her stead to inquire about the little one. 
How is it with her?” 

“Last night we had quite given up all hope; now she 
is getting along a little better,” said the woman. 

“May I go in to her?” asked Nina, hesitatingly. 

“No!” said Mme. Marechal, shortly. “She would 
wake up directly — I cannot let any stranger in to see 
her. ” 

It was many years before Nina ceased to be haunted 
by the look of cold contempt with which the poor labor- 
ing man’s wife examined her from head to foot as she 
uttered that word — “stranger.” 


Nina begged that they would find some corner in the 
little house for her to occupy till the child recovered, or, 
at least, till its illness took a decisive turn one way or 
another. 

Mme. Marechal made no difficulty as to this. She pro- 
vided Nina with a nice, clean room, and sent up her 
meals to her. 

“She hoped madame would be satisfied,” so she said, 
adding : ‘ ‘Madame must be good enough to excuse things. 
They aren’t quite what they should be; but the little 
one can’t bear any one about her but myself, so madame 
will quite see that I can’t trouble myself much about the 
housekeeping. Everything has to be left to the little 
servant ; any one can see that at a glance.” 

It seemed as if the long August day would never end, 
so slowly did it pass. Nina sat in her room with her 


BROKEN WINGS. 


87 


elbows in her hands and her eyes fixed upon the dial 
of the clock on the mantel. 

The sultry, still, depressing air of that hot day came 
through the open window, mingled with the swishing 
sound of corn going down before the sickle of the reapers. 
But there was one little sound audible all the time in the 
midst of that made by the rich crop as it was leveled 
with the ground — a weak sound, as of something uttered 
with difficulty. And that was the painful rattling of the 
child’s breathing, as it lay in its struggle with death. 

She crept to the door of the sick-room. She listened 
and listened, with ears morbidly sharpened. She heard 
the monotonous step of a woman going up and down 
with a burden on her arm. She heard a low, motherly 
voice stammering out tender, caressing words. Then 
she heard a small, weak, hoarse voice lisping half-formed, 
scarcely intelligible words. Yes, she heard that quite, 
quite plainly. 

She could not stand it any longer. She must see the 
child. She opened the door and looked in, only for one 
moment. She saw a small white something wrapped up 
in white, a little head with curly brown hair resting on 
the shoulder of the fond, faithful nurse, a little tender, 
white hand hanging over her shoulder. 

Nina looked at all this only for an instant. Then the 
little one became aware of the presence of some one she 
was not used to, and began to whimper more painfully ; 
whereupon Mme. Marechal turned and looked sharply 
and straight into Nina’s eyes. Again the same cold, 
hard, almost contemptuous, glance, measuring her from 
head to foot. 

* ‘I told you that I could not have any interference or 
disturbance here while the child is so ill,” said she, 

Nina retreated. While on the threshold of the room, 
holding the door-knob, once again she heard the monot- 
onous step, the caressing murmur of the woman’s voice 
as she held the child in her arms. 

“The child that is not hers,” said Nina’s heart, sud- 
denly; “not hers, but— mine.” 

She had seen it only for one little moment, the little 


88 


BROKEN WINGS. 

head with the golden-brown curly hair, the tenderly 
rounded small cheek, the little hand hanging helplessly, 
the soft outlines of the small, helpless child-body with 
its white covering. 

Only for one little moment; but it seemed to her now 
as though she would go mad on the spot with longing 
love to have the child about her, to be about the child ; 
as though she would willingly give all that was left of 
her poor, besmirched, spoiled life to be able to hold the 
child only one hour in her arms ! 

Late in the evening, came the doctor. She managed 
to ask him, as he was going along the corridor, what his 
opinion was. All that he could venture to say was : 

“This night will decide it.” 

That night! that endless, endless night! First, she 
closed the window and opened the door that led to the 
corridor, the corridor of the little French house, which 
had a strong smell of warm wood ; and she remained 
standing at the door, listening, listening. Then she crept 
nearer and nearer, and cowered down at the threshold 
behind which her child was struggling for life. She 
folded her hands and prayed— yes, prayed ; she who not 
so long before had boasted, even to unseemliness, of her 
lack of faith in God, and who now in her agony of help- 
lessness prostrated herself in worship. She implored that 
this little life might be Spared, implored it with the im- 
passioned humility with which a child, conscious of 
offense, might beseech its father for some favor far, far 
beyond its deserts. 

Yes ; at this moment God was to her something real, 
indeed, something not afar off, but close to her, quite close 
—something which could not but listen to her* something 
which she felt she could not but press closer and closer to 
with her entreaties and implorations. 

Yes, indeed. Women of her stamp need a God, a God 
with whom they can speak ; by whom they can be heard, 
face to face. 

The hours passed, one after the other ; how slowly, 
how slowly ! 

The dark came, and seemed to Nina as though it en- 


BROKEN WINGS. 


89 


compassed her. Only the window of the corridor was 
visible, with its misty, dark-gray square, and through the 
key-hole of the sick chamber there came a sharply clear 
blue-gray spot of light. The child’s hoarse, difficult 
breathing went on continually, and every now and then 
it whimpered pitifully. How long it lasted, how terribly 
long ! And still Nina kept cowering at the door, listen- 
ing, listening. 

At last there came a sort of movement in the thick 
darkness surrounding her. It became thinner and thin- 
ner, more transparent, more transparent — all but white. 

In the distance the crowing of the birds was heard. 
Nina involuntarily turned her head. As the noise of this 
crowing ceased, so was that hoarse breathing and whim- 
pering heard no more in the child’s room. 

Nina dug her nails deep into her hands. She heard a 
slight rustling within, as of clothes being put on. 

“It is all over now,’’ said Nina to herself. “She will 
say a ‘Paternoster’ or so, and then come out and tell me 
that it is all over !” 

But the door remained unopened. An hour passed. 
The daylight was now fully broken, the birds crowed no 
more, and numberless feathered creatures were twitter- 
ing in the trees. The door remained closed ! Nina, who 
could scarcely move, so stiff was she from remaining so 
long in the same position, struggled a little upright, and 
her dress rustled as she did so. 

The door was opened and Mme. Marechal stood upon 
the threshold. She was startled by the sight of the pale, 
miserable creature at her feet. 

“How are things going? 0 stammered Nina, lifting up 
her heavy, trembling hands slowly and painfully. 

“I think, I really do, that she is better; she is asleep, 
and the fever has subsided,” said the woman. 

“Thank God! thank God!” murmured Nina, and then 
added, humbly : “May I not see her yefc?” 

Mme. Marechal softened. 

“If you will promise to keep yourself quite still, 
come,” she said. 

Then Nina stepped over the threshold of the sick 


90 


BROKEN WINGS. 


chamber, and went up to the little, old-fashioned, yellow 
painted bed in the corner of the small room. 

She stood for some little time motionless, in deep, al- 
most reverent, reflection, and with clasped hands, gazing 
at the sweet, pale little face resting so well on the coarse 
but clean linen pillow ; then she knelt down at the foot 
of the little bed, folded her harjds in prayer, and finished 
there, with humble, grateful thanks to God, the prayer 
which she had outside that room begun in anguish and 
grief. 


It was one warm afternoon late in the summer, in the 
middle of September, when Baroness Jewitsch, on her 
return from her journey to Austria, alighted at the little 
station of St. Eusebe. She had not sent previous word 
of her arrival to Nina, whom she knew to be still in the 
little place, as she wanted to surprise her. With a strange 
feeling of expectation she traversed the winding, crooked 
street of the little village, one side of which was in pitch- 
black shadow, while on the other the coarse stones of the 
pavement glistened in the sun like silver. At last she 
reached the little house in which the Marechals li ved. 

She stopped at the little, low, lattice-gate of the gar- 
den, and looked over into it with delight. 

It seemed to her that she had never yet in all her life 
seen such a nook of varied, blooming, cozy delight. In 
front of the house, and reaching up to the very shutters 
on the ground-floor, there w~as a whole palisade of sun- 
flowers, with broad rays of gold round their pitch-black 
countenances. At her feet there was a veritable profu- 
sion of asters, lilies yellow and rose-colored. All about 
the little circle of lawn in the middle of the garden the 
roses, champagne-colored or pale-red, shot up and were 
resting among the crowns of the slender little trees, 
which had already begun to shed their leaves, and ap- 
peared in beautiful relief against the blue background 
of the sky. All about the lattice pf the inclosure there 
was a delightful confusion of dahlias. And over and 


BROKEN WINGS. 


91 


above all thi^ swarms of insects were quivering in the 
sunshine, like a living veil, going up and down and form- 
ing a cloud of little singing creatures, which filled the 
little garden with their early autumn music in the most 
delightful manner. 

There, there among the red dahlias there was some- 
thing yet more delightful, and it was that which the old 
woman was so anxiously looking for. 

Nina sat on the ground with her back to the little 
garden-gate. A wooden shovel was by her side. It was 
plain that she had used it to build up the big sand-hill 
which she was now decking with all sorts of flowers. And 
there, behind the sand-hill, contemplating these wonders 
with big, solemn eyes, lay a curly-headed little puss, in 
a dark-blue pinafore, with both its little hands resting 
on the ground, and its dear little bare legs stretched out 
as far as they would go. 

All of a sudden, the little thing lifted up its eyes and 
directed them, beyond the sand-hill and Nina, to where 
the old woman was standing by the little gate. The big 
child-eyes grew bigger and bigger, stared more and more, 
became more and more solemn. Then, all of a sudden, 
the little creature sprang up, dashed over the sand-hill 
and past Nina, and trotted as fa§t as she could up to the 
grandmother, and stretched out both her little hands to 
the old woman through the slats of the gate. 

The grandmother was affected nearly to tears. 

“She knows me — after six weeks she knows me !” she 
exclaimed. “Wait, my pet, my darling, else I shall hurt 
you, throw you down. Take her a moment, Nina!”— 
who now come up, and, taking the child by both should- 
ers, lifted her up, while the old woman pushed open 
the gate. 

But she had hardly got into the little garden before 
the little one began to twist and wriggle about impa- 
tiently to get out of her mother’s hands and into her 
grandmother’s arms. And then there was, indeed, no 
end of kissing and caressing, and prattle and laughter. 

“She has never yet snuggled up to me in that manner,” 


92 


BROKEN WINGS. 


murmured Nina, as she took her mother’s hand and 
kissed it. 

“Oh, she and I are older acquaintances,” replied the 
old woman, without thinking of what she was saying. 

‘ ‘That is true, and I shall never be able to catch up 
with you,” said Nina, sorrowfully. 

“Why not? How silly!” said the grandmother, and 
tried to make the child go to Nina. But the little one 
held the baroness tight round the neck with the small 
arms. 

“Oh, let her be; she knows where she is best off,” 
said Nina; and then her head drooped and she began 
to sob. 

A voice spoke to her from the inmost depths of her be- 
ing, and told her that she would always hold not the first, 
but the second place m her child’s heart, as long as its 
sweet and precious life should last. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


93 


SECOND BOOK. 

St. Valerie in Caux — and a chill, unpleasant day for 
July ! On the wooden balcony of the Beach Hotel there 
stood a young man looking down for whatever his eyes 
might find to regale themselves on. To the right, a 
bcdth with all sorts of cheap trifles; then the Casino, 
with its various uninteresting buildings, painted red, and 
extending for some distance. Further down, and nearer 
the water’s edge, a long row of white bathing-huts— all 
this behind a low inclosure, and decorated all over with 
little red and white flags of different sizes. A little further 
to the left the “town-park” of St. Valerie, having at its 
center a large bed of pale-red, sickly -looking Malmaison 
roses, standing out from an uneven lawn of poor, dry 
shore-grass, which was surrounded by a path strewn with 
sand of staring yellow. Then a few scanty, starveling 
bushes, and next to them the low shed in which the life- 
boat was kept. Still further, the two wooden piers, 
stretching, gray and bald, far out. into the sea; and, 
further still, a portion of the little town, tiny houses ris- 
ing stiffly just above the sand-hills, most of them of gray 
stone put together without mortar; and among them, 
with sunken windows and walls painted green, half-ruin, 
half-poorhouse, the Chateau die la Trompette. Then, 
stretching far beyond, and vying with the glitter of the 
sea, as far as eye could reach, the perpendicular white 
rocks of the coast, bordered green at their tops. And 
beyond, nothing but sea and sky. 

He was one of those who are not in the habit of allow- 
ing their eyes to remain long fixed on insignificant things. 
Casino, bathing-huts, the poverty-stricken “town-park,” 
and the little town— all these had, so to speak, vanished 
for him into the ground, and he was alone with the sea 
and the sky. That sky was of a slaty gray, covered with 
small cloud fragments ; the sea deep green, with broad 
stretches of violet shadow forming themselves between 


94 


BROKEN WINGS. 


the waves as they perpetually rose and fell, pushing each 
other aside in an endless and tumultuous series. Here 
and there white foam was visible in long streaks and 
separate spots, changing, changing, all the time, with 
nothing stable about them except change. And amid all 
this, that strange sound of lamentation which the sea 
emits, with so many modulations, during all the days 
and nights in which it knows no rest. 

And wandering, as it were, between the desolate sky 
and the mysterious sea, a small, chill wind, which now 
seemed to take short starts forward, and now seemed to 
stand still awhile, and all the time kept vexing and wor- 
rying everything and everybody without being able to 
get far from that one spot. 

The young man bitterly disliked that small, stinging 
wind ; but he dearly loved the sea. He felt always as 
though it had some message for him, which he had never 
yet been able to understand. 

It had been with him from early youth. He had never 
been able to settle for himself the question whether that 
message was an invitation to come nearer or a warning 
to keep his distance; but the enigma had always been 
the more fascinating to him because of the difficulty of 
its solution. 

He could not live without the sea ; therefore he had 
become a Seafaring man. 

He was a Holsteiner, and served in the Danish naval 
service— a rather large, blonde person, with an unusually 
fine-cut, beardless, sunburned face, with a short, straight 
nose and powerful chin. In his eyes there shone some- 
thing of the melancholy light which rarely fails to dwell 
more or less in the orbs of sensitive human beings ; and 
on his full lips were all the signs of the joyousness and 
high spirit which is the privilege of youth when the 
health is unimpaired and the conscience is quite clear. 
But eyes and mouth alike betokened a sweet kindliness 
of nature, unbounded goodness of disposition. And it 
was this which chiefly struck people when they first saw 
that handsome face. 

The young man’s name was Klaus von Olden, and he 


BROKEN WINGS. 


S5 

had, only a little before this, come to France to visit the 
dearest and oldest friend of his youth, a Dane who had 
taken to painting. He had longed very much for the 
company of this friend, because of having lately under- 
gone a heavy affliction. He had lost his mother, to whom 
he was attached with a really affecting, child-like devo- 
tion. And he yearned for some consoling sympathy, such 
as only this friend could give, who had, indeed, been al- 
most more like a brother than a friend, and with whom, 
since their first separation, he had kept up a regular corre- 
spondence, though the intervals between their letters were 
sometimes considerable. He had hoped to find again in 
this friend the comrade of his youth, one with whom he 
had not merely played the wild tricks of boyhood, but 
who had also been able to share in all the high poetic 
aspirations of his far-reaching and idealist soul. 

He had allowed himself to dream of their coming to- 
gether again in the most intimate communion, and of the 
delight of narrating their life-story to each other, undis- 
turbed by any third presence. How delightfully they 
were, in his fancy, to narrate it all, from the time when 
they had to go their separate ways ; what long, gossiping, 
unrestrained talks he had looked forward to ; talks which 
should give them that simple, unpretentious joy which is 
the greatest of all joys ; talks in which they would sum- 
mon up and almost see smiling upon them again dear, dead 
people ; talks in which they would renew their laughter 
at the dry, old familiar jokes of their younger days, and 
recall many a word of affecting reproof or warning, and 
many more of deepest love and tenderness, which it had 
been their privilege to hear from father or from mother. 

All this Klaus von Olden had confidently looked for- 
ward to. All this and more was to come of his meeting 
with Jens Larsen. But he was destined to meet with a 
disappointment, bitter, indeed. 

For what was it that he had actually found in this old 
associate of his youth? A cynic, a gifted cynic, who had 
loafed away his powers and talents, and who was at that 
time living with a young person accidentally picked up 
in the little bathing-town where Klaus had come to visit 


96 


BROKEN WINGS. 


him. He received Klaus with noisy demonstrations of 
delight, and made a great outcry about the remarkable 
beauty which his friend had developed during the six 
years they had been apart. And he professed himself 
delighted beyond everything with the fact that Klaus had 
grown to be a head and shoulders taller than himself. Ke 
seized his arm and cried, again and again, each time 
louder than the last : “There’s a biceps; there’s a biceps 
for you!’’ and then went and dragged in his present, 
temporary companion, and exclaimed to her : 

“Just look at this fellow! It’s worth the trouble. 
Just look at him, I say !’’ 

The young lady — a shopgirl dismissed from her employ- 
ment not so long ago, and who was training to appear at 
some music hall or other— did not need to be told twice 
to do this ; and, indeed, complied so zealously with her 
protector’s suggestion that she began to make eyes at 
Klaus that very day. 

Artists in numbers buzzed about this couple, young 
people who" were traveling mostly in pairs like this un- 
fortunate one just described. And occasionally there 
came young female teachers, traveling alone, who, so 
far, had preserved their respectability ; but were minded, 
poor things, to enlarge their field of view by consorting 
with artists and emancipated folk generally. 

All this confusion and disregard of the fixed duties 
and relations of society was repulsive beyond measure 
to Klaus. He might have put up with the behavior and 
doings of Bohemians, social gypsies who were frankly 
and without qualification so ; but this demoralized mix- 
ture of elements which ought to be kept severely apart, 
this fraternal alliance between respectable middle-class 
persons and conditions, on the one hand, and audacious 
unrestraint on the other, was nothing but disgust to him. 

This set of people did nothing but sing, dance, guzzle 
and joke the whole livelong day, and spared no pains to 
make him one of themselves. 

And, sooth to say, Klaus von Olden, though given to 
poetic reverie, was not exactly a saint. He could take 
a good deal more than his fair share of whatever was 


BROKEN WINGS. 


97 


going in the shape of noisy and unrestrained frolic ; but 
as things were here, and suffering as he was from the 
loss of all that had been, and the failure of all that he hsd 
expected, in that early friendship, his higher sensibilities 
were painfully at work in him, and it was disagreeable 
beyond measure to be in the company of people by whom 
all the finer and deeper movements of his being were 
checked and brought almost to a stop. 

It was in Veules that he had renewed his intercourse 
with his friend and met this unhappy circle. He bore 
the vexation of these unsympathetic surroundings for a 
little, while, clinging to the hope that he might still dis- 
cover something of the earlier man in his degenerate 
friend ; and then he abruptly left the place and went on 
to St. Valerie, an hour further by the railroad, to rid 
himself of the disagreeable impression and be for awhile 
himself again. 

“If you really want my company you can follow me,” 
he had said to his friend on leaving ; “but I do beg of you 
to come on by yourself. ” And Jens had laughingly 
promised to do so. However, three days had now 
elapsed and his friend put in no appearance. Klaus von 
Olden began to ask himself whether it was worth his 
while to lounge and fritter away his time any longer, 
and very soon answered that question in the negative. 
The bathing there was by no means agreeable, owing to 
the roughness of the shore ; and the liberal view of them- 
selves afforded by the French ladies, with their peculiar 
bathing costume, was anything but an attraction to 
Klaus, accustomed as he was to the stricter ways of Ger- 
man sea-side places. 

A quarter of an hour before the moment when we first 
catch sight of him he had just finished packing his small 
belongings and had made up his mind positively to leave 
the place the next morning. And now he was standing 
on that wooden balcony and looking at things in general, 
as we have seen him. The sun went quite down. There 
was a little glimmering of struggling dull red light 
among the small, broken clouds on the horizon, and then 
that ceased, too. The lamps began to show, one after 


98 


BROKEN WINGS. 


the other, along the inclosure of the Casino ; he heard the 
light sounds of French dance-music^tb at music in which 
there is levity, but no joy — mingling with the monot- 
onous booming of the sea ; and the light tones struck 
upon his ear from the distance as might the humming of 
insect swarms out of which fancy might vainly try to 
construct some melody. 

All of a sudden, quite close to him, he heard sounds 
coming through the thin party-wall that separated him 
from the adjacent apartment. He heard something that 
at once drove sea and Casino out of his thought : a Ger- 
man song, half-sung, half-hummed, in a soft, caressing 
voice, tinged with melancholy, the voice and tones with 
which some young mother might try to coax her child 
to sleep : 

“A mill-wheel turns and turns, 

In a green, sequestered spot ; 

And there I sought my darling, 

Sought, but I found her not ! 

“She swore to be true forever, 

And gave me that dear little ring ; 

But she stayed but a little while with me, 
Then fled, as a bird takes wing. 

“And I’d fain mount horse and fare 
Forth fighting, fighting still, 

And death or victory dare 
As God, my Lord, shall will — 

And death or victory dare 
As God, my Lord, shall will !” 

Between the first and second stanza the voice made a 
little pause. And it seemed to Klaus as though he then 
caught the soft twitter of the voice of a child sweetly 
overcome by sleep. Then the singer sang each verse in 
a voice lower and lower still, until at the last it was 
difficult to catch anything whatever of the tones. Then 
the song ceased altogether. And now there was no sound 
about him at all but of that music from the Casino, with 
its mocking, impish levity ; only that and the never-ceas- 
ing roar of the sea. A sort of hunger for that song, to 
hear it once again, quite overpowered him and brought 
the tears to his eyes. The fact is, that the poor fellow’s 


BROKEN WINGS. 


99 


heart was very sore, and his solitude weighed heavily 
on him. The song had sounded in his ears like an echo 
of everything that had been most dear and sacred to him 
in his childhood. Often and often had his mother sung 
it to him when she was rocking him to sleep on her 
knees at a time he could never, never forget, when he 
was quite a little fellow and very ill, indeed. 

Never does any one realize how dear is home, and how 
dear the songs of home, as when these home songs are 
sung in a strange land. Then it all comes back with ir- 
resistible power ; the song, the home, and all that is im- 
plied in that wonderful word. The parents’ house ; the 
soft warm caresses of the mother ; the first sweet, dreamy 
fancies about the life that is to unfold itself in the future ; 
that firm faith in Heaven and the world and ourselves, 
which, alas ! may since have died out utterly in our souls ; 
that boundless hope which sees or knows no limits to at- 
tainment either in this world or the next. 

The poor fellow rubbed the tears away with his 
knuckles, just as he had done when a little child. Oh, 
Heaven ! where had all that vanished to now? Without 
some influence, some surroundings like that, life was not 
worth living, not worth the smallest coin known in the 
moneys of man. Was he never to haiow anything of that 
sort of life again? Yes; yes. It seemed to him all at 
once as though he saw the eyes of some child looking up 
to him, and, in those eyes, something of the light, and 
life, and joy of those early, unforgotten years. 

Then there came upon him a longing for a hearth of 
his own, for beloved beings to work and care for ; a long- 
ing to liberate his soul by lavishing on others some of 
the wealth of love that lay so heavily on his own good, 
noble heart. And how sweet, how lovely it all seemed 
to his fancy! His home, his young wife singing his 
children to sleep. He saw her quite plainly, going to 
and fro with soft, gliding steps, with a sweet little crea- 
ture in her arms. He heard her singing to it, in tender, 
soft, pathetic tones : 

“A mill-wheel turns and turns 
In a green, sequestered spot.” 


100 


BROKEN WINGS. 


Yes, the tender, soft, pathetic tones which come of a 
great, great happiness, such as he would know well how 
to impart in all its fullness to the wife of his heart and 
bosom. 

Then his mood changed, and he began to scold and 
smile at himself for his exaggerated sentimentality. And, 
presently, a strange thing happened. The next room 
had a door giving on to the balcony ; it was thrown open. 
His heart beat with violence and he stepped out. There, 
close to him, separated only by a partition of wooden 
slats, with intervals quite large enough to see what was 
on the other side, he beheld a slender female form. Some- 
thing like a cold shudder went through him — the lady on 
the balcony was an old woman with white hair. 

Could it have been she who had sung the song? He 
would have wagered his life that the voice he had heard 
belonged to a young woman. For a little while he stood 
there quite motionless, gazing fixedly, but in deep disap- 
pointment. Then the old woman turned round, showing 
as she did so a finely-cut profile, and dark eyes full of 
fire and life. Then, speaking to some one within, in 
German, but with an accent somewhat strange to him, 
she said : 

“Nina, do come out ! The air is quite delightful now, 
and the little one is sound asleep.” 

And then there came forward to the old woman’s side 
—and how long his memory held that first sight of her ! 
—a second female figure, showing a sweet languor in 
every movement of her frame, something of a shy dis- 
trust of herself in all her bearing, and a face which, to 
him, in his present mood, was absolutely irresistible with 
its pathetic expression. Never in all his life had he seen 
a pair of eyes so beautiful and sad. 

She looked very pale, all the paler for the imperfect 
light. The color of her hair he could not exactly make 
out ; but he saw that it was very rich and soft, and that 
she wore it put back from her forehead and gathered 
into a well-arranged knot at the back of her head. Her 
dress was very simple, some dark percale with round, 
white spots, and it was fastened at her waist by a leath- 


BROKEN WINGS. 


101 


ern girdle of light color. She was far from being stout; 
but the outlines of her frame were soft and round and 
inviting to the eye, and struck him particularly, as he 
rarely saw anything like it among his native surround- 
ings. He had never seen anything of the same sort ex- 
cept when he went ashore in foreign harbors. Spanish 
women were somewhat like it ; but no Spanish woman 
had, in addition to this remarkable beauty of outline, 
such an expression of melancholy, such chaste reserve in 
every attitude of the body and every lineament of the 
face. 

“Isn’t it all beautiful and sweet, air and sea, all?” 
asked the old woman. 

The younger one was resting her folded hands upon the 
ledge of the balcony. She drew a long breath with evi- 
dent satisfaction. 

“Wonderfully beautiful!” she said, in low tones, and 
in her voice there was the same sadness and sweetness 
which had so caressed his soul when she sang the little 
song of his home. “Wonderfully beautiful! Ah, if one 
could but take the delight of it all in with an untroubled 
soul!” she added in a yet lower voice. And then she 
turned her head in a chance way toward Klaus, and her 
glance met that of the young man, who, almost in spite 
of himself, made a slight bow of deep respect. 

She was so startled that she returned his greeting in 
an involuntary, slightly awkward way, and then, almost 
before he could realize that she had done so, she had 
slipped back inside the house like a young doe that sees a 
hunter in the distance. The old woman followed her, 
and he was once more alone, quite alone. 


The impish music of the Casino had wholly ceased, 
and the audience dispersed, chattering and laughing, to 
their several homes. He could hear them painf ully well 
as they went along the quay beneath him, and the shrill 


102 


BROKEN WINGS. 


voices and unrefined laughter disturbed him grievously. 
It made him think of the wretched company which he 
had fled from Yeules to be rid of, and it chased away his 
better and deeper thoughts, bringing him violently again 
to earth. 

The corridors of the hotel filled with people. Doors 
were opened and shut. Presently all was still, and he 
heard nothing but the sea’s strong voice. And again 
there came to him the old, old fancy of the message that 
that sea had for him ! And whether it was an invitation 
to come nearer for blessing, or a warning to keep distant 
to avoid misery, he could not determine ; could not, now, 
never had been able to, heretofore. 


And, as might be expected, he did not leave the place 
next day ; but he learned from the hotel register that 
the two ladies adjoining him were inscribed as the “Bar- 
oness Jewitsch and daughter.” 

“Baroness Jewitsch and daughter !” He could gather 
nothing decisive from that ; that sounded as though the 
daughter were an unmarried person traveling under the 
protection of the mother. But, as he could not but sup- 
pose that the daughter was the mother of the child whom 
she had lulled to sleep, he concluded, quite as of course, 
that she must be a married woman. That there could be 
anything irregular or out of the beaten path in the case 
was a thing which, in view of the highly distinguished 
and dignified exterior of the ladies, was not likely to oc- 
cur to any person who was without any inkling of the 
circumstances, and least of all to the inexperienced Klaus 
von Olden. 

Perhaps it ought to have been set down “B. J. and her 
daughter-in-Zaw\ This was how, after some reflection, 
he settled that it must be. And, of course, that day he 
looked out anxiously for the two ladies at the table 
d’hote, at luncheon time. And he saw them, while he 


BROKEN WINGS. 


103 


was still a good way off, at the long, narrow dining- 
table in the middle of the low dining-room — a room 
which smelled strongly of pine wood, and had orna- 
mented panels in which were depicted, in a wild, impres- 
sionist way, some of the best parts of the St. Valerie 
scenery. 

Between the older and younger lady there sat a very 
little girl, with bare arms and shoulders, and they had 
rolled up a cloak for her to sit on that she might reach 
up to the table. Anything prettier than this tender little 
creature, with its fresh face and big eyes and gold-brown 
curly hair, Klaus had never seen in all his life. 

At first, the little one paid no attention to any one but 
her mother, who now appeared to him not quite so lovely 
and also somewhat older than she had looked last night 
in the imperfect light. He bowed politely as he seated 
himself opposite the ladies, and his greeting was by them 
returned almost stiffly, as on the previous night, while 
his efforts to enter into conversation with them were dis- 
countenanced ; any little service which he found occa- 
sion to offer during the course of the meal being met 
with the shortest possible “thanks,” without any encour- 
agement to any further advances. The only one of the 
party that looked at him at all steadily or approvingly 
was the little one, and she smiled upon him very de- 
cidedly indeed; and the longer he looked at her the 
more charming he thought her. She prattled all the time 
either to the ladies or to herself, and behaved herself as 
prettily and obediently as possible, and, in fact, was the 
delight of the whole table. 

At dessert, they put an apricot divided in two upon the 
little things plate, and she suddenly took one of the 
halves and held it out to him. He was quite moved and 
flattered by what the lovable little soul did, but refused 
what she offered. And now she began to chat to him 
with all sorts of pretty and sweet movements of her lively 
little frame, and wanted to tell him things which he 
could not make out, as she saw and was vexed. She 
prattled more and more, and he begged the two ladies, 
with a smile, to be her interpreter. They gave him a 


104 


BROKEN WINGS. 


polite but short answer, and then the elder of the two 
cried to the child, almost sternly : 

“You must not be troublesome, Litzie 1” 

Then the ladies rose. The younger made no demon- 
stration ; the elder, who took out the little girl, turned 
round at the door and gave a slight nod. But the little 
girl did not stop looking round at him until she was 
fairly out of the room. 

He felt a contraction at the throat. Both ladies had so 
decidedly repulsed his advances that he could not help a 
wounded feeling. 

He could imagine no reason for this, except that they 
had their share of the haughtiness generally attributed 
to Austrian ladies ; and he had recognized them as such 
by their accent. Well, well. As he looked at the com- 
pany, right and left, it was natural and proper enough 
for them to avoid making acquaintance among these 
shop dandies and over-dressed tradeswomen ; but — it was 
not exactly on the street that they and he had met, and 
he had offered them courtesy. And he thought that the 
mere look of him might have sufficed to remind them of 
that. He had been used to having discrimination exer- 
cised at once in his favor by everybody, and, bringing 
sympathy, he was accustomed to being everywhere re- 
ceived with answering sympathy. He spent the rest of 
the day in asking himself whether, peradventure, these 
proud Austrians had taken him for an obtrusive commer- 
cial traveler, and in trying to make up his mind whether 
he would leave them altogether to themselves for the 
future or try to make them feel what a blunder they had 
made. And he was as nearly sulky as his sweet temper 
permitted. But in his secret soul their resistance made 
him all the more keenly desirous of becoming more closely 
acquainted. 

He returned from a long walk in the lovely environs 
of St. Valerie, and anticipated a renewal of enjoyment in 
coquetting with his pretty little neighbor opposite. But, 
instead of little Felicia, lo ! there sat opposite him a cop- 
per-faced Frenchwoman, with projecting teeth and a 
gigantic bust. The Austrian ladies were seated, with the 


BROKEN WINGS. 


105 


little girl, apart from the rest of the company, all by 
themselves, at a little table next to the window. He bit 
his lip. Toward nightfall, when he stepped out on the 
balcony, he saw the ladies at the end of it furthest from 
him. It was plain that they had shifted their room to 
avoid his neighborhood. 


“I TOLD you how it would be. In a little bathing-place 
like this it will be difficult to avoid making acquaint- 
ances,” observed Baroness Jewitsch. This was the morn- 
ing after the day which Klaus von Olden had spent in 
such vexation of spirit, forming one contradictory plan 
after another. The mother and daughter were seated 
together in their little room. The glass door leading to 
the balcony stood open, the apartment was flooded with 
sunshine, and an odor of sea-weed, tar and salt water 
filled the air. The mother sat in an armchair darning a 
pair of very little socks. She was always doing some- 
thing, partly from old habit, and chiefly because the 
trouble in her poor heart was too keenly felt when she 
did not try to dull it with some needlework or other. 

The daughter was, seated on the step, between the win- 
dow and the balcony, with her brown head bowed down 
and her hands in her lap. The knitting at which she had 
been making a pretense of working had slipped out of 
her hands and lay at her feet on the threadbare carpet. 

“Oh, mother, what in heaven can it matter whether a 
few human beings speak to us or whether they do not?” 
she murmured, in a tired voice. “It is so sweet to be 
together all the three of us once again, without anybody 
to come between. I don’t care to look at strange people 
or hear a word they have to say.” 

“But they have eyes and ears, and can’t help looking 
at you and listening to what you say,” replied the old 
woman, in a somewhat more irritated tone than she gen- 
erally used in speaking to her daughter. “People interest 
themselves in us and try to approach us.” 


106 


BROKEN WINGS. 


“And if they do, well — let them please themselves,” 
said Nina. 

“It is easy to talk like that, but — but — ” The old 
woman stopped short. 

Nina pressed her hand over her forehead. 

“I understand,” said she, in low tones. “Yes, you 
mean that people might ask questions, and it is hard for 
you to have to invent something or other all the time to 
cover up my position. We will retire a little further 
into the background.” 

“We must, indeed,” said the mother, with a sigh. 

But Nina made such convulsive movements with her 
wooden knitting-needle that it snapped in her hands. 

“Oh, mother, mother!” she cried, “if you only knew 
what pain and grief it is to me that you should suffer as 
you do ! Go back to Austria, to the dear creatures you 
love so, and where your life may have some brightness. 
Leave me to my fate. I shall be able to struggle with it 
somehow or other. ” 

“I should not like to see matters take that shape at 
all,” said the mother, almost impatiently. 

“You fear that I might sink lower and lower?” asked 
the girl, in a slow voice, frowning heavily. 

“No, Nina; no,” answered the mother, quickly. “But 
what I do fear is that you, imprudent as you are and al- 
ways were, would run your head against the wall, and, 
in some fit of impatience, would hurl the truth at the 
faces of people ; and that would just simply make exist- 
ence an impossibility to you.” 

“Do you think so?” replied Nina, shrugging her 
shoulders. “I would wager not a little that half the 
people who know me in Paris have guessed my secret.” 

“It is possible; but they are thankful that you keep ft 
back from them and give people about you the right to 
behave as though they knew nothing to your prejudice. 
In some sad situations all that the world requires is that 
persons should dissemble in its presence, and thinks it a 
grave breach of decorum not to do so. ’ ’ 

Nina set her elbows on both knees and supported her 
face on her two hands. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


107 


“Dissimulation! Lies! Always, always lies!” sh e 
groaned. “It is horrible, horrible! Oh, to be able to 
hold one’s head erect once more, to look people straight 
in the face, to be able to speak out the truth, the whole, 
full, unmeasured truth ! If you could only know how I 
yearn for it, how I hunger for it !” 

She clinched her fist and then opened it, stretching her 
fingers wide as if to symbolize the breadth and largeness 
of the relief she craved for. 

“Yes, often, often am I tempted to turn my back upon 
all these respectable people whom I have to play the hyp 
ocrite with and — and fight my way, among those before 
whom I should not need to go about downcast ; and they 
are not the worst in Paris.” 

“Nina, for the love of God, how can you let such a 
thing cross your lips? Think, think ! What would be- 
come of the child?” 

“And what will become of it in any case under our 
circumstances?” said Nina, bitterly. “Besides” — and 
she stooped to pick up her knitting and put it away in 
her workbasket — “it is high time to give the little one 
her milk. Little woman !” she cried, going toward the 
balcony, “little woman!” once again. She put out her 
head to look, but the “little woman” was nowhere to 
be seen. “For God’s sake!” exclaimed Nina, “she can- 
not have fallen over the railing?” 

“Oh, don’t be so silly !” said the old woman, who could 
hardty keep down her own agitation. “Her little nose 
hardly reaches the top of the railing. And as if there 
would not have been a mob and noise enough below in 
the road if any such mishap as that took place ; but — 
where— where— is she hiding? Don’t worry like that, 
Nina. Don't, I say ; nothing can have happened. Little 
woman ! little woman !” 

Pale to the very lips, their temples damp with agita- 
tion, and their hands all of a tremble, the two women „ 
stood on the balcony looking in every direction for the 
child. 

“Good heavens, there she is !” suddenly exclaimed the 
elder lady. 


108 


BROKEN WINGS. 


There, at the other end of the balcony, sat little Felicia 
on the arm of Klaus von Olden. It was quite plain that 
he had found the greatest favor in the sight of the tiny 
creature, and there she was in the highest delight. Just 
as soon as she caught sight of Klaus she had crept 
through the openings at the bottom of the partitions di- 
viding room from room along the balcony till she got at 
him. He knew that the ladies would be quite anxious 
about her, and expected them to appear at any moment; 
and when he saw them, he gave them a bow, which he 
could not help accompanying with some laughter, and 
then considered what he must do next. 

He might have gone along the corridor ; but it was not 
at all to his fancy to give them the child back at their 
door and be sent about his business then with “a thou- 
sand thanks;” and, as to receiving him within their 
sleeping apartment, that, of course, the ladies could not 
think of doing. But they could not very well repulse him 
upon the balcony ; and he was determined to seize the 
opportunity of presenting himself to them there. Ac- 
cordingly, he took Litzie in his arms, and, stepping with 
his long legs over all the hindrances in his way at each 
room along the balcony, went to the agitated Austrians. 

“I am delighted to be able to restore your little jewel 
to you, madame,” said he, holding out the child to Nina. 

“Many, many thanks!” said Nina, in a low voice and 
almost with a sob, as she stepped back with the little one 
into the room. 

Klaus and the old baroness remained alone. He had 
on a blue morning costume, such as all the young men 
are in the habit of wearing at the sea-side— the clerks of 
the big dry-goods stores of Paris during their three weeks’ 
holiday just as much as the members of any aristocratic 
club— but it became him a good deal better than most. 
The old woman’s glance rested with pleasure upon him. 
She had an invincible preference for handsome young 
men, and, and— well, she could not bring herself to be 
discourteous or disagreeable. 

“Pray allow me to introduce myself to you, madame,” 


BROKEN WINGS. 


109 


he began, bowing deeply to her. “Yon Olden, lieuten- 
ant in the Danish navy.” 

The moment she heard the word “navy,” his cause was 
gained. Her lively temper carried her off her feet. She 
could not deny herself the pleasure of a nice gossip with 
a satisfactory fellow-creature belonging to her own social 
sphere. She told him her own name in the most natural 
way in the world, and, further, that she had two sons, 
both in the navy, and that she had, in consequence, 
recognized the sailor in him yesterday, at table, on the 
spot. 

“Really?” he answered, with a suppressed smile, 
which, however, was not without some roguishness. “I 
am truly surprised to hear that ; I should rather have 
thought from your demeanor that you took me for some 
obtrusive commercial traveler.” 

“For a commercial traveler — you?” The old woman 
laughed quite merrily. “Do you think I have no eyes 
in my head? Certainly one can’t tell so well and quickly 
about foreigners as one’s own country people ; but, for 
all that, one can’t make any very great mistake about 
the class which any one belongs to. How in the world 
could you get it into your head that I took you for a 
commercial traveler?” 

He laughed lightly. 

“Your behavior at table yesterday made me think so.” 

“My behavior ! Was I discourteous to you, then?” 
asked the old woman, somewhat anxiously. 

“No,” he answered, “not discourteous; but you made 
me keep my distance.” 

A glass window now opened behind him, and a head 
was put out, whose owner did not seem in the best of 
tempers. 

The fact is, that Klaus had been talking to the baroness 
just at the last of the fences on the balcony dividing the 
apartments, and was where he had no right to be ; so the 
old woman had no alternative except either to be rude 
and abruptly break off the conversation with him, or to 
ask him to step over to their part of the balcony. And 
she could not bring herself to be rude to the young man. 


110 


BROKEN WINGS. 


“You are interfering with other people’s property in 
an unwarrantable manner, Mr. von Olden,” she said. 
“ Better come over here to us. ” 

“May I, really?” he said, hesitating to do it. 

She gave a good-humored nod, and pushed to him one 
of the folding-stools on the balcony and seated herself 
on the other. She was now in her own element. She 
was once again the amiable housewife and hostess she 
had been while her husband lived, and which she had 
continued to be in that little dwelling on the third story 
where she contrived to make things so pleasant for her 
sons’ comrades that they preferred to spend their even- 
ings with her and her sons to passing them in the most 
aristocratic drawing-rooms in the city. 

“I am so delighted to hear German once more, amid 
all this snappy Gallic chatter,” he said, after they had 
gossiped awhile about one thing and another; which 
made her ask him : 

“What can have brought you to such a tiresome little 
place as this St. Valerie? It’s well enough for women 
and children ; but young gentlemen want rather more 
entertainment. ’ ’ 

Klaus turned away his head. 

“It is only six weeks since I lost my mother,” he mur- 
mured, and his voice suddenly sounded thin and hoarse. 

“Oh, poor, poor fellow!” said the old woman, the 
tears coming into her eyes. And this was not only sym- 
pathy with the bitter trouble, evidently so bitterly felt, 
of Klaus von Olden. She couldn’t help thinking of her 
boys at home, and how they would feel if she were taken . 
from them. And then the sudden thought struck her 
whether the two lads, now so demoted to her, might not 
soon let her slip from their memory. And this went like 
a dagger-stroke to her heart. 

There was a little pause, and then she began . again, 
looking him over carefully : 

“But you surely haven't come here for the benefit of 
your health?” 

“No,” said he, with a smile breaking through his de- 
pression, “though some will have it that sea- baths are 


BROKEN WINGS. 


Ill 


only good, really, for people who have nothing the mat- 
ter with them. At all events, that’s what our people at 
home stoutly maintain. But I should not in any case 
have come so far from home for my health. No — I came, 
madame, I came — ” 

“Well?” 

“It seems to me presumptuous to talk so much about 
myself ; I don’t see how you can be much interested in 
my lot.” 

“But it does interest me very much.” 

He bowed, and took off his white straw hat. 

“I did not come to visit this place. My journey was 
really to Veules, to look up an old friend of earlier days, 
who is now an artist and lives in France. But our meet- 
ing was a great disappointment to me ; he has changed 
very much, and the people about him were much too 
noisy for my present frame of mind. So I migrated to 
St. Valerie, and told him to follow me if he wanted to be 
with me. So far, I have seen nothing of him. If he is 
too merry for me, it is plain that I am too sad for him. 
It has been quite painful to me.” Klaus shrugged his 
shoulders and smiled in a rather melancholy fashion. 

All of a sudden he turned round and began to listen. 
From the room within there came through the window, 
which, however, Nina had closed, or nearly closed, that 
sound which he had heard the other evening— 

“A mill-wheel turns and turns 
In a green, sequestered spot.” 

“If you only knew how it went to my heart, when I 
heard that little song, so far away from home, the even- 
ing before last, when I was still your near neighbor.” 
He put his cap on again and drew it partly over his eyes. 
“Really, I am ashamed of such sentimentality in such 
a time as ours? But the truth is, the atmosphere of my 
home seemed to breathe in every tone ! You must excuse 
me. I had not heard the little song since my childhood, 
and my mother used to sing it to me when I was down 
with a serious illness.” 


112 


BROKEN WINGS. 


The little song ceased. Nina drew one of the wings 
of the door slightly open and said, in a low voice : 

“The little one is asleep.” Then she caught sight of 
Olden and drew back quickly. 

He rose. 

“Do be so very good as to present me to madame — to 
your daughter — my dear lady,” said he, turning to the 
baroness, who could hardly move hand or foot in her 
perplexity, while her cheeks reddened deeply. 

“Mr. von Olden desires to be presented to you,” mur- 
mured she, almost mechanically. “He is an officer in 
the navy, like both our lads at home.” Then, doing all 
the violence to herself of which she was capable to get 
some self-restraint, and while everything swam before 
her eyes, she added: “My daughter is not married. Our 
little darling is an orphan. She belongs to.a daughter 
whom — whom — I have lost.” 

“Ah! is that so?” and a feeling of great joy ran 
through him as he bent before Nina. 

But the old woman felt as if her strength was alto- 
gether failing her, and that she was in no state to go on 
talking in her former easy way. 

“We might wake the little one,” she whispered him. 
“Go quite gently through our chamber and along the 
corridor.” She put her hand on his shoulder, almost 
pushing him on. 

“Pray forgive me for taking up so much of your time, 
madame,” he murmured, in some perplexity. 

“Oh, not at all; not at all. It has been a great pleas- 
ure to me to make your acquaintance;” and she held 
her hand out to him. 

He touched it gently with his lips and murmured, in 
a sort of beseeching way : 

“May we meet soon again !” and then went, as he had 
been told, very lightly through the chamber of the two 
ladies to the corridor. He had quite a strange, almost 
solemn, feeling at having been permitted to put his foot 
in that little room. As he went through, his glance fell 
for a moment on the bed where little Felicia lay sleeping 
with her small nose .turned to the wall. How sweet and 


BROKEN WINGS. 


113 


suggestive of the dear home life it was to him in his grief 
and solitude ! 

But while he went out and wandered among the sand- 
hills to dream about all dear and sacred things, the 
mother and daughter stood before each other like crea- 
tures turned to stone. 

Nina was the first to recover herself and speak. 

“I thought you had made up your mind positively that 
we were to make no new acquaintances?” she said, not 
without some irritation. 

“In this case it would really have been difficult to 
evade it without being too rude,” answered the mother. 

, “Oh, Heavens!” cried Nina, and said not a further 
word. She and her mother had retired within their room 
from the balcony, and spoke in quite low tones, not to 
disturb the little sleeper. Nina seated herself again on 
the step b}' the glass-door and went on hurriedly with 
her knitting. The mother also seized her needlework; 
but, this time, it was she who let it fall idly in her lap. 
In a little while she said : 

“What a handsome fellow he is !” 

“Who?” asked Nina, absently, looking up from her 
work. 

“Who? Why, this Klaus von Olden — I think it was 
Olden he called himself. He serves in the Danish navy. 
I have rarely seen such a handsome creature. ’ ’ 

“Do you think so?” said Nina, indifferently. 

“Yes; he has something about the mouth that looks 
like Heinz— don’t you think so?” asked the baroness. 
Heinz was her youngest, and especial pet. 

“I didn’t examine him closely,” sighed Nina, in a tired 
voice. “I was all the time vexing myself that he would 
remain so long out there. I had the greatest trouble to 
put the little one to sleep. Couldn’t you, really, get rid 
of him?” % 

“Oh, I had such a nice gossip with him; he reminded 
me of my lads at home,” murmured the mother, in a 
shy, shamefaced way. “Besides, I don’t think that we 
need give ourselves any anxiety about this new acquaint- 
ance ; I don’t think he’ll remain long in this place.” 


114 


BROKEN WINGS. 


The old woman’s voice trembled ; and then she began 
all at once to sob violently. It was the first time that 
she had quite broken down under the burden which she 
had borne so valiantly now for nearly three years. It 
was the first time that she realized fully what sacrifices 
she must submit to in order to share and lighten her 
daughter’s unhappy lot. 

The sound of the mother’s weeping woke the child. 
She turned round to her grandmother and stretched out 
her little arms to her ; and then her poor little face began 
to work, and she cried, too. 

The old woman sat down on the bed by the baby and 
did her best to quiet it with caresses and fond words. 

“Be quiet, little woman, my darling. Go to sleep 
again nicely, pet! Grandma has no sense; grandma 
will behave better, my pet, my sweet, my treasure !” 


The three are taking their supper — dinner they called it 
at St. Yalerie — once again at the little extra table by one 
of the windows of the big, low-roofed dining-room ; but 
this time there was a fourth chair at that table. 

Klaus von Olden had found his way, somewhat later 
than the others, into the midst of the confused rattle of 
spoons and knives and forks and the odors of soup, and, 
seeing the Austrian ladies, bowed to them, receiving in 
return a friendly'nod. He had to pass by them to reach 
his place at the long table, and stopped to exchange a 
few words. 

All of a sudden little Felicia, who was almost entirely 
hidden by a big napkin tied behind her neck, and who 
had been absorbed in the task of getting the spup to her 
mouth with her spoon, which she did most conscientiously 
and cleanly, lifted up her head. Her little face beamed 
with delight at the sight of her tall, blonde friend. Her 
eyes seemed to dance in her head, and one small dimple 
after another appeared in her cheeks. All of a sudden 


BROKEN WINGS. 


115 


she jumped to her knees with all a small child’s supple- 
ness, bent forward and struck the vacant corner of the 
table by her grandmother with her small fists, and prat- 
tled, with her soft, rather deep chest-voice : 

“Here eat ; here eat l” 

Olden laughed, and was about, modestly, to go to his 
place, with some little hesitation, however, when Nina, 
with no change whatever in the melancholy indifference 
which now characterized everything she did, turned to 
her mother and said : 

“Mamma, do ask Mr. von Olden to take a seat with us 
here. No doubt it bores him to sit with all those stran- 
gers at the long table/’ 

The baroness looked up at her daughter with astonish- 
ment ; but she had plainly no alternative except to ask 
Klaus to join them. 

The baroness and the young man talked freely enough 
while they were at table ; but Nina’s melancholy bearing 
was quite unchanged. She said but little, made now and 
then some insignificant remark, which was precious to 
Klaus because of the sweet sad smile that accompanied 
it, and the exquisite softness and purity of the tones in 
which it was uttered. Her only idea in suggesting that 
Klaus should join them at dinner was to give her mother a 
pleasant hour, and it was a sad pleasure to her to see how 
well she had succeeded. The old woman behaved just 
like a bird taken out of its cage and set at liberty ; full of 
delight at being able to move its wings freely once again, 
but still filled with a sort of anxious doubt and scudding 
hither and thither without taking any direct flight. She 
told him all sorts of things about her home, things which 
could not by any possibility interest Klau3, and at which 
a cold man of the world would have smiled with superi- 
ority. But Klaus was anything but a cold man of the 
world. He was a young idealist, brimful of goodness 
of heart and goodwill to everybody. The young man 
was simply and heartily grateful to the old lady for the 
motherly sympathy she displayed to him, and was as 
far as possible from testing her talk by any high stand- 
ard of criticism. 


116 


BROKEN WINGS. 


As the talk with the mother went on, he stole a look, 
from time to time, at Nina’s beautiful, pale face ; and he 
asked himself what could possibly be the solution of the 
problem presented by its strange, almost unearthly, sad- 
ness. 


From this time he saw a great deal of them, and now 
took all his meals at their table. He accompanied them 
in their walks, and sometimes, when the walk lasted 
longer than usual, he had to carry the child home. It 
was a merry delight to him to feel the small, soft body 
in his arms, and her little warm arms round his neck. 
And how Litzie snuggled up to him ; how tight she held 
him ! And every now and then she would fasten her lit- 
tle moist mouth upon his cheek and look at him out of 
the corner of her eye with the most flattering coquetry, 
and with an expression which plainly said that she hoped 
he set the proper value on the high favor she did him. 

And when she caught sight of him coming up to them, 
she ran to him with her little arms wide open, scream- 
ing with delight, as fast as her little legs would carry 
her. He laughed, and yet was much moved, and de- 
clared that he had never made a conquest on which he 
so prided himself as that of this fond, sweet little crea- 
ture. 

Nina remained always melancholy and quiet, friendly 
but reserved. She was the only one of the three to 
whom his coming and going seemed indifferent. And 
when the baroness became fully convinced of her daugh- 
ter’s indifference, she allowed the last traces of reserve 
to disappear from her own relations with the young man. 
His company was a sheer delight to the old lady, and 
why should she not enjoy it to the full? As to his falling 
in love seriously with Nina, such a thing did not seem 
possible to her. She saw only too plainly the little 
wrinkles that were coming in Nina’s face, and how it 


BROKEN WINGS. 


11 * 

had lengthened under the deep and bitter suffering she 
had undergone. Her daughter seemed to her prema- 
turely aged, and hardly to be called beautiful at all 
now. 

With this feeling, she made no difficulty in leaving 
Klaus sometimes alone with Nina. When they were thus 
alone together, it happened only in the accidental way 
such things do in the comparative unrestraint of holiday 
life at the sea-side. And Nina generally broke such oc- 
casions off somewhat short, not from prudence or prudery 
but because all intercourse with strangers was too bur- 
densome an exertion to her since her misfortune. 

One day she strolled out alone with Litzie to Boutautre, 
a village in the suburbs, and walked through its street of 
very old-fashioned houses, with large, small-paned win- 
dows, and tall, black straw roofs, on which Iris was 
growing in gay profusion ; while the gardens in which 
they stood were full of roses and sunflowers. 

Immediately at the rear of the cottages there, was a 
small, thick wood, quite a little forest, and the ground 
rose rapidly, so that the shadow and perfume of the 
trees fell heavily upon the village street, which was so 
little frequented that it was thickly grown with grass. 

Nina was tired ; the child was tired. She sat down on 
the grass at the edge of the forest, and the child began to 
pluck wildfiowers. Suddenly she uttered a cry of de- 
light and was in Klaus von Olden’s arms. 

“You had better take care or I shall run off with your 
niece yet,” said Klaus, putting the child down by Nina’s 
side. “You don’t seem to realize what advances the 
young lady makes me 1” 

“Oh, I see it all well enough,” said Nina, smiling, for 
Litzie was now clasping her tall friend’s knee with both 
arms and one side of her large white Holland pinafore 
was spread all over him. 

Klaus took hold of her under the arms and tossed her 
high in the air. She screamed with delight. 

“Would you like to be always with me, you little 
witch?” he asked, holding her close to him in a half- 
teasing, half -caressing fashion. 


118 


BROKEN WINGS. 


Litzie understood both German and French in her 
small way, and, consequently, spoke neither the one nor 
the other, but a pathetic little jumble of both ; in which 
she now gave Klaus to understand that such an arrange- 
ment would be quite to her mind. 

“It’s a pity she isn’t some fifteen years older; then I 
could marry her. I’m quite sure she would have me if 
nobody else would,” said Klaus, laughing as he kissed 
the little girl and stole a glance at Nina. She did not 
observe it, and, after a little pause, during which she 
seemed to be thinking, repeated after him : 

“Yes, a pity, a pity !” 

Klaus laughed somewhat convulsively. 

“Do you really think it such a pity?” he asked Nina, 
in an almost imploring tone. 

“Certainly,” said she, with a sigh. “I would give a 
good deal to make sure of so satisfactory a husband for 
her as you would make ; but one does not often come 
across such. Poor Litzie will have to put up with some- 
thing inferior.” 

She said this frankly and without the least constraint, 
and as women do speak when talking with men whose 
future can never deeply concern their own. He had 
thrown himself down on the grass, and, with his head 
supported on both his hands, looked up into her face. 
The child was seated between them. Suddenly, Klaus 
began to laugh again, a short, dry laughter, somewhat 
forced. 

“What are you laughing at?” asked Nina, and the lit- 
tle one looked steadily at him with her large eyes, with 
some solemnity and slightly offended. He took her tiny 
little hand in his big hand. 

“Don’t be vexed with me, my sweet little pet,” he 
murmured, in his most caressing tones. 4 T wasn’t laugh- 
ing at you, only at myself— that is to say,” and, holding 
Litzie’s hand in his all the while, he looked up to Nina 
and said : “The truth is, I wasn’t laughing at anybody or 
anything in particular. One often laughs when speecli 
W, too difficult. Don’t you think so?” 

‘T— I don’t know. Laughter is even more difficult to 


BROKEN WINGS. 


119 


me than speech ; and, God knows, that’s often difficult 
enough for me!” replied Nina, absently, and then she 
looked at him, saying: “But why, I wonder, should 
speech be difficult to you?” 

“Oh, there’s reason for it, more or less,” he said, in a 
half voice, passing his hand a few times uneasily over the 
short grass on which he lay. “It was only — only because 
you just now said something really kind to me for the 
first time since we became acquainted ; and I did so long 
to hear something of the kind from you. ’ ’ 

“You? Me?” asked Nina, in astonishment, and still 
without the least constraint. “I have quite ceased to 
think that words of mine could give pleasure to any one. 
Besides, you have been so fully taken up with Litzie and 
mamma — ” 

He went on flattening the grass with his hands and 
became quite red. 

“I don’t want to say a word against the lovableness 
of the other two ladies ; but, if it is as you say, it is be- 
cause I never could get more than a very casual word 
with you, mademoiselle. You have so persistently ig- 
nored me during the whole course of our intercourse that 
I could not help thinking that I am altogether out of the 
range of your sympathies.” 

“I am truly sorry for that,” cried Nina, sweetly, “and 
you are quite, quite mistaken. I have thought and felt 
about you in the most kindly and friendly way, and I 
don’t think I could have expressed myself more clearly 
in that sense than by saying, as I did just now, that I 
should be rejoiced if Litzie could have a husband like 
you !” And then she added, after the awkward fashion 
of persons who have long since ceased to take any except 
the saddest and most serious views of things: “You'd 
better come in fifteen years or so and tell mamma that it 
is time you took Litzie away.” 

“H’m, h’m,” he ejaculated, in a reflective way. “In 
fifteen years Litzie will, no doubt, be a most charming 
creature, perhaps even more seductive than now. But 
don’t you think that I should then be a little too old for 
the young person?” 


120 


BROKEN WINGS. 


“I don’t know. I fancy that in fifteen years you will 
be just as satisfactory as you are now,” said Nina. 

“Well, we’ll leave that question,” he laughed. “It 
is very amiable of you to think so, but” — he took off his 
cap and laid it beside him on the grass — “but to be quite 
straightforward with you, I shouldn’t like to remain 
quite so long without marrying.” 

She looked at him in wide-eyed surprise. 

“But, really, I meant no more than a jest in what I 
said,” as kindly as possible. 

“I know it; but the jest touched so very closely things 
that are the most sacred and serious to me that I cannot 
resist dwelling on them a while.” 

It was only now that Nina became aware of the singu- 
lar turn and tone the conversation was taking. She 
seemed to gather herself together, sat more upright, and 
her eyes moved uneasily, as though she meditated flight, 
and yet were chained to the spot by some undefined at- 
traction. 

“In fifteen years Litzie will, I fancy, become some- 
thing like — what her aunt now is,” he continued, shyly. 
“It is extraordinary how the little one resembles you, 
mademoiselle. Your features, with a mingling of some- 
thing southern. Was your brother-in-law a Hungarian 
or an Italian?” 

Nina was painfully perplexed, and hardly knew what 
answer to make. Fortunately, something happened to 
divert Klaus von Olden’s attention. Just at that moment 
there came along the road a little carriage drawn by a 
very rough, bristly donkey, with three persons in it. Two 
of them were singing the “Marseillaise” at the top of 
their voices ; the third blew a horn from time to time. 
The donkey suddenly took fright at the noise, and gal- 
loped on as fast as he possibly could ; the little equipage, 
in consequence, raised such a big cloud of dust that it 
was scarcely possible to distinguish the faces of the peo- 
ple in it, or anything of them, in fact. The only thing 
that was plainly visible was the reflection of the light on 
the brass of the horn. The noise grew louder and louder, 
until at last the one who blew the horn became entirely 


BROKEN WINGS. 


121 


master of the position. This was too much for the donkey. 
He threw his ears back, set off at breakneck speed, and 
went straight with all the company, as though it was his 
deliberate purpose to get rid of them all, right into the 
ditch by the roadside, which, fortunately for them, was 
not over-deep and had not much water in it. 

The horn flew over the road. And, in the three per- 
sons, as they extricated themselves with shrieks and 
laughter from the ditch, Klaus recognized his good 
friend Jens Larsen, Mdlle. Stephanie, the famous music- 
hall songstress that was to be, the temporary sharer of 
his friend’s fortunes, and a certain Monsieur Menier, a 
superannuated basso, who was resting on his laurels at 
Veules, and still called himself Menier of the Opera. He 
had, some indefinable number of years before, “created” 
the part of “the Messenger” in Verdi’s Trovatore, at the 
Grand Opera in Paris. 

All the three were dressed most fantastically ; and what 
was chiefly remarkable was their hats, when they fished 
them out of the ditch. Big pointed Japanese straw hats 
they were, adorned with woolen tassels, blue and red, and 
as big as a fist. 

Before Klaus knew where he was, all three had recog- 
nized him and dashed at him, and Mdlle. Stephanie em- 
braced him with just as much hearty freedom as did 
her two companions ; perhaps a little more. 

When he had recovered from his momentary stupefac- 
tion, he saw two forms hurrying away along the road 
to the village ; one was a tall one, and had a little one 
in its hand. It was Nina and Litzie, who had fled the 
scene. 

“That’s a beauty, if ever there was one!” said Jens 
Larsen. “But how unkind to bolt from us like that! 
Have we disturbed you, old boy?” And he clapped Klaus 
on the back, as he was not big enough to reach his 
shoulders. 

“Yes,” said Klaus, impatiently. 

“H’m! Very sorry,” said Jens, in the most uncon- 
cerned way, and thrust his hands deep in the pockets of 
liia trousers. He was made up of that strange combi- 


122 


BROKEN WINGS. 


nation of humor and sober steadiness which makes some 
of his Netherland countrymen so much at home in every 
situation, and causes others to lose themselves in mysti- 
cism and all sorts of crazy speculations concerning ethics 
and politics. 

Presently he began rubbing various parts of his frame, 
which seemed to be in not quite as comfortable condition 
as they might be. 

“Cursed beast!” he groaned; and then added: “His 
owner assured us that the donkey could only be made to 
go if he had some music administered to him, and we 
did our best for him ; and then, because its quality was 
not on the level of his high artistic sensibilities — you saw 
it yourself — what does he do but get rid of us all, as if 
it were a good joke ! Well, there’s no denying that the 
donkey has shown that he has the most brains of the 
whole party.” 

While Larsen walked up and down with Klaus, chat- 
ting, and every now and then rubbing himself industri- 
ously, and brightening up the horn which he had picked 
up from the dust, his companions busied themselves with, 
the task of dragging the donkey and the carriage up out 
of the ditch and trying to make the crazy equipage fit 
for the road again. 

“A very handsome person, indeed!” said Jens, re- 
flectively, after a while, looking in the direction where 
Nina’s retreating figure was still to be seen. Then, sud- 
denly turning to Klaus: “Widow, or with a superfluous 
husband?” And his eyes twinkled significantly. 

“Neither; a young girl,” said Klaus, in tones by no 
means amiable. 

“Really; and the child?” 

Klaus became as red as fire. 

“A niece.” 

“Oh, indeed! H’m, h’m ! And she’s traveling alone 
with the child— that’s to say, with the niece, eh?” 

“And her mother.” 

“Oh, indeed. Better and better. And you are over 
head and ears in love !” 


BROKEN WINGS. 


123 


The Dane made a movement with his hand from one 
ear to the other and then across his eyes. 

Klaus was much inclined to box his ears soundly ; and, 
as that was the only answer he could think of and not 
quite available, instead of answering his friend’s ques- 
tion at all, he attacked him, in turn. 

“Why have you brought all this crew along with you 
% to vex me? I told you plainly enough that if you wanted 
to visit me at all, you were to come by yourself.” 

“To tell you the sober truth,” answered the Dane, “I 
hadn’t the least idea that you were still staying here. 
How should I know what attraction was fastening you 
to the place? I’m sorry to interfere with any of your 
illusions, but the fact is that the desire of seeing you was 
no part of the motive that brought me here. And as to 
the lady and the other gentleman” — he made a move- 
ment of his shoulder toward his companions — “they are 
to take part in a performance at the Casino to-night, and 
I’ve come along to lead the applause. Come to the Ca- 
sino to-night?” 

“I’ll take care to do nothing of the kind.” 

“Well, I’ll leave others to do the clapping as best they 
may and allow myself the pleasure of devoting the even- 
ing to you ; for, after all, I can’t get rid of my old fond- 
ness for you, quite.” 

“Really ! It gives me uncommon pleasure to hear it; 
.highly honored!” said Klaus, with a sort of ferocious 
humor. 

“Now, don’t you try sarcasm ! That’s a thing you’ll nev- 
er get on far with ; doesn’t suit you at all. And it is the 
simple truth that I’m a good deal fonder of you than you 
of me ; but you are difficult to get on with, very. You 
can’t live in peace with that share of devil that every one 
of us comes into the world with. In your company we’ve 
all got to shove it on one side. And, deuce take it ! it 
isn’t every one that can screw himself up to the sort of 
archangelic pitch of a knight of the Holy Grail that you 
think necessary.” 

“Now, Jens, just listen to what I say : I will not have 
you turn me into caricature like that !” cried Klaus. 


124 


BROKEN WINGS. 


“Far be it from me to drag the sublime down into the 
dust!” said Jens, with a highly comic gesture. 

“Now you’ve gone quite far enough, and you’d better 
stop.” 

“For Heaven’s sake, not yet! But, what an angry 
face — what an angry countenance ! Say, Klaus, I wish 
you’d sit to me for an Archangel Gabriel kicking Satan 
to hell : will you?” 

“Perhaps you’d like to take the interesting part of 
Satan?” asked Klaus, smiling in spite of himself. 

“Oh, I don’t pretend to any such magnificence, for 
my part,” said Jens, quietly. “Tm neither angel nor 
devil, but an everyday fellow who feels himself quite at 
home in the world and makes the best of it he can.” 

“H’m ! And I suppose you think 1 am without human 
feelings because it is not exactly to my taste, in my pres- 
ent far from cheerful state of mind, to go round with 
this crew here and regale myself with their impish 
tricks, and loaf away my life as you do.” 

“Loaf away my life?” repeated Jens, a little more se- 
riously. “Well, we’ll just see which of the two reaches 
the more desirable goal in life, in the long run, you 
or I.” 

“I don’t see anything particular to stand in the way 
of my reaching a desirable goal in life,” murmured 
Klaus, with vexation. 

“Don’t you? Well, I’ll tell you, then. Those wings * 
of yours, which you will persist in wearing as you go 
along, they’re worth a good deal less than nothing. You 
can’t reach heaven with them, and they’re simply in the 
way while you are on this earth. Sooner or later they’ll 
be broken, and it’s a horrible thing to have to drag bro- 
ken wings about the world which one can’t get rid of.” 

Klaus’ head sunk — a breath of cold wind came up from 
the sea, a cold shiver ran through him. And Jens, who 
seemed lost in thought, unusually so for him, went on 
murmuring, “A handsome person, really, a very hand- 
some person !” 

The two comedians had at last succeeded in dragging 
donkey and carriage out of the ditch, and got them in 


BROKEN WINGS. 


125 


order. They drove up to the two friends, uttering shouts 
of delight, and made as if they would pull up that they 
might get in and go on together. 

But Jens did not join them ; he blew a loud blast on the 
hoyn, handed it to them, and remained with his friend. 




As they walked about together later, the two friends 
met the Austrian ladies and the child on the quay. The 
old woman made a movement to Klaus while they were 
yet a good way off, signifying that he must present Jens 
to her ; and when he did so, asked him in the kindest 
way whether his friend would not like to join them at 
the table d'hote. 

Which suggestion the friend assented to with the great- 
est pleasure, excusing himself in a few humorous words 
for the oddity of his strolling player’s costume, as he 
called it. Klaus had not been without a feeling of dis- 
comfort in bringing him and the ladies together, but 
found nothing to take exception to in the bearing of the 
painter. Jens behaved quite like a respectable person, 
was cheerful and amusing without being noisy, and not 
a word passed his lips which could offend. 

The baroness laughed and gossiped and played the 
hostess exactly as if she were at her own table. 

Nina looked very lovely, and was quieter and more 
melancholy than usual ; Litzie was a little excited and 
entertained them all exceedingly. She made Jens Larsen 
keep his distance, to his huge amusement, but nothing 
could coax her away from Olden’s lap, and when her 
dessert was brought her she took and stuffed it all in his 
mouth. 


When the ladies had retired, the two friends went 
along out on the pier to smoke a cigar together. Jens 


126 


BROKEN WINGS. 


had suddenly become quite silent. Of the two Klaus was 
now the more disposed to talk. 

“They are charming, my three Austrian ladies, are 
they not?” he asked his friend, for whom his old warm 
feeling was reviving again. Jens hesitated before re- 
plying : 

“Yes, very charming, very charming!” 

“All three?” laughed Klaus, a little awkwardly. 

“H’m! All three,” repeated Jens, slowly. And then 
he added, much more rapidly : “The only really extraor- 
dinary individual of the three is the little one. My 
stars ! If I am not very much deceived, in seventeen or 
eighteen years she will be one of the most bewitching 
creatures that ever lost its way in this sinful world. 
What life and fire there is in the small creature ! I should 
like to meet her again when she’s quite grown up. H’m ! 
She has begun soon ; she is already in love with you, 
friend Klaus !” 

“I’m quite proud of her favor,” laughed Klaus, “but 
you are rushing to conclusions about her ; the little one 
is very enticing, but, after all, there’s plenty of nice chil- 
dren, and one never knows how they will turn out.” 

“Well, I should say it would take a good deal to pre- 
vent that creature from turning out somebody,” growled 
Jens. 

“Very likely, very likely,” and Klaus snapped his 
fingers impatiently. “'But the other two. I think that 
the other two were quite worth the trouble of a little at- 
tention ; the old woman so charming with her extreme 
amiability, so cheerful, so high-hearted in the midst of 
her poverty, for it’s plain enough that they are poor ; 
and then, so distinguished.” 

“Yes, a famous old lady,” said Jens; and then fol- 
lowed the silence and reflective air which so annoyed 
Klaus. 

“And the young girl?” Klaus began. 

“Oh! I say, she is not so young as all that!” cried 
Jens. 

“Why, she cannot possibly be more than two or three 
and twenty years old,” said Klaus, with some heat. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


127 


Jens put his hands in the pockets of his trousers and 
began to whistle. 

“She’s handsome enough, there’s no denying it, but she 
won’t remain so much longer; and there’s not much 
behind her face.” 

“I consider her most interesting,” said Klaus, with 
decision. 

“Well, the remarks she made were of a tolerably every- 
day kind,” said Jens, shrugging his shoulders. 

“It is not easy for her to express herself in words, but 
her nature is deep, full of poetry, full of aspiration,” 
went on Klaus, in his enthusiastic way. 

His friend fetched a deep breath, laid his hand on 
Olden’s arm and said : 

“My dear boy, you’ve been creating an ideal little hu- 
man being out of the superfluous overflow and excess of 
your own noble qualities. It is you who are the deep, 
poetic, aspiring nature. As to that young lady, if my 
wits do not deceive, she is only of a confused and be- 
fogged mental constitution; and, if one doesn’t readily 
see the very bottom of her soul, perhaps there’s some not 
altogether nice reason for that. ’ ’ 

There was a pause, and then he said : 

“Who was the child’s father; what was his position ; 
what about him?” 

“I don’t know, we’ve never talked about it,” said 
Klaus, indifferently. 

“Is that so? So he isn’t talked about, eh? And about 
the mother?” And the painter looked Olden straight in 
the face. 

“Jens!” cried Olden, and stamped so violently on the 
wooden floor of the pier that it creaked heavily under 
his foot. “For shame ! for shame !” 

Klaus thought his friend would lower his eyes apolo- 
getically, but Jens Larsen s gaze remained steadily fixed 
on him without flinching. Then Klaus turned from him 
in disgust and made to leave the pier. Jens held him 
back. 

“Stay! do stay for one word!” he said. “Do you re- 
member what I said to you to-day about the broken wings 


128 


BROKEN WINGS. 


which some people carry about with them and can never 
get rid of? If you don’t want to break yours, buckle to- 
gether your knapsack and go off together with me this 
very day back to Veules. And then we’ll make a tour 
together; I’ll break away from everybody and every- 
thing else, and we’ll be together for a little time with no- 
body to interfere with us. ’ ’ 

The two friends stood together for a while in the midst 
of profound silence ; not a sound was audible but the un- 
ceasing low moaning of the sea. Then there came, sud- 
denly roaring up, a wave, much larger than the others ; 
it rose high above the sea till its white crest broke and 
shone in the sun’s sinking light ; it came up as it were 
with a joyous and boisterous majesty. Then a moment 
passed, and where was it? Broken in pieces, all the 
power of its movement and sound gone ; nothing more 
of it left than a little white foam on the shore ; the only 
sound left in it a small, pitiful cry which was to swell 
into something more and more triumphant, the Cry of 
some small oncoming wave which was, like the first, to 
grow larger and larger till it, too, burst ; as is the fate of 
all waves. 

“Do you mean to come?” asked Jens. 


“Mother, is the little one asleep? I have something 
to say to you?” 

It is Nina speaking. She has just come in, heated, ex- 
cited, with a strange look in her eyes expressing some- 
thing between joy and fright, the strangest mixture of 
both ; her whole frame was full of agitated expectation. 

“Yes, the little one is asleep; but bow long you have 
stayed out ; I began to be quite anxious about you ; I was 
almost afraid you had fallen over the cliffs,” answered 
the mother. 

It is evening and the twilight is falling fast ; all is 


BROKEN WINGS. 


129 


gray out of doors, no light is visible except the red lights 
of the Casino ; there is a dark white shimmer on the sea, 
its restless movement can just be caught, but the eye can 
distinguish no outline in the waves. 

Nina has returned from a walk which she took on the 
pretext of buying some biscuits for the little one. Her 
mother knew that solitude was often a necessity to her, 
and allowed her to take her walks without interference. 
As a general rule she came back with eyes bearing only 
too plainly the traces of tears ; then the mother would 
sigh, and turn her head away from the misery to which 
she could administer no consolation. Yes, she was famil- 
iar, indeed, with the marks of tears on her daughter’s 
face and eyes, but this strange combination of delight 
and terror that she saw in the girl’s agitated face and 
shining eyes now was something she was not used to. 
And it alarmed her. 

“What is it?” she asked Nina, peremptorily. “What 
is the matter with you?” 

“Mother,” said Nina, putting away the hair from her 
forehead with both hands, “I met Olden, and he begged 
me to grant him an interview, and we went on the pier 
together— and— and— he has asked me to marry him.” 

“You, you!” the horrified baroness almost screamed, 
starting from her seat and clasping her hands. 

“Oh! quietly, quietly! Don’t wake the little one,” 
said Nina, trying to calm her. 

“You, you! Oh, unhappy creature, unhappy crea- 
ture !” 

Then, there was a painful pause. The mother and 
daughter confronted one another, the first pale as death, 
the other agitated beyond measure, frowning hea vily and 
gnawing her under lip. The mother was the first to 
speak. 

“And your answer, your answer?” she asked slowly. 

“I_I__begged him to give me time for reflection and 
promised to give him my decision to-morrow,” replied 
Nina, with something of defiance in her voice. 

“Reflection! What is there to reflect about, I should 
like to know?” said the baroness, in a choked voice. 


130 


BROKEN WINGS. 


‘‘Only one answer is possible to such a request as that, 
and you might have given it on the spot.” 

“What answer pray, mother?” asked Nina curtly. 

“A short, sharp and inexorable No! ” answered the 
mother, decisively. 

“Indeed, indeed !” Nina had now seated herself at the 
table ; the lamp was lighted and stood there. She played 
with the tassels of the table cover. “A simple ‘No,’ 
without any reasons for it? Is that what you mean?” 
she asked, in somewhat cutting tones. 

“A simple ‘No,’ without any reasons at all,” said the 
mother firmly. 

The daughter’s shoulders went up ; her movement was 
like that of a horse rearing under a sudden violent stroke 
of the lash. 

“That is not the view I take of it,” she replied. “I 
think — ” 

“What can you possibly think?” 

“I think I owe it to him to avow the facts.” 

“Avow, avow! No, Nina, no; you must do no such 
thing !” 

“Why not?” 

“Because to do so would be either a piece of folly, or 
wicked. If he is a mere everyday creature it would be 
the height of folly to make him master of your secret and 
degrade yourself for nothing in his eyes ; and if he is a 
fine, exceptional creature it would be wicked of you, for 
your confession would mean an appeal to his generosity.” 

The daughter remained seated by the table, her elbow 
resting on it and her head in her hand ; the mother was 
standing, with her hand on the table. She stood quite 
upright, and her demeanor was one of inflexible resolve 
not to depart one hair’s breadth from duty as she saw it. 
She belonged to that class of Austrian women who be- 
come greater and nobler in misfortune. Before these 
trials she might have been taken for no more than a 
cheerful, lovable woman— now she had grown almost to 
the proportions of a heroine. 

“A challenge of his generosity! A challenge of his 
generosity!’ said Nina, twice, with violence. “Well, 


BROKEN WINGS. 131 

have I not a right to put my fate in his hands and leave 
it to his decision?” 

“No !” replied her mother. “You have no such right. 
You have no right to break a young, noble, beautiful life 
by laying on it the burden of yours. It is frightfully 
difficult to say it to you, Nina; but you have no right to 
do this, none at all.” 

“But—” Nina went on playing with the tassels of the 
table cover, pulling them about more and more convul- 
sively ; the mother reached for the lamp and took hold of 
it to prevent its falling. 

“But — but, it is his business — if he could pardon — if he 
— he — could overlook my past — surely it is not my part — 
the happiness — Oh ! what am I saying? Happiness is 
not for me — but liberation, liberation from my unhappy 
position, redemption, safety ! If he is willing to give me 
these is it for me to reject them?” 

“Nina! It must not be! No! You must not think 
of it !” 

The defiant expression became stronger on Nina’s 
face. 

“You are hard, mother !” she groaned, and then she 
passed her hand over her tired eyes. “What is the use 
of arguing about impossibilities and uncertainties? Be- 
sides, it is not even probable that Mr. von Olden, how- 
ever great his generosity, could bring himself to marry 
me, under the circumstances ; not at all probable.” 

• “No; you are wrong.” The mother shook her head. 
“It is quite probable, quite; such things have happened, 
frequently happened ; I am almost convinced that Olden 
would stick to his purpose in spite of everything, but 
you, you ought not to abuse his generous impulses. In 
this wretched business you must show yourself the 
stronger and more reasonable of the two.” 

“Strong and reasonable — 1 ?” Nina’s arms fell to her 
sides and she seemed quite exhausted of physical as of 
moral power ; then, shrugging her shoulders, she said : 
“So far as I understand you I ought not to give him the 
chance of forgiving me because it would be so bad for 
him, and any one for whom it wouldn’t be bad wouldn’t 


132 


BROKEN WINGS. 


think of forgiving me for a moment. So that all I am to 
look for is to go on in my torture and bring up my child 
for nothing better than a miserable, humiliating exist- 
ence in which she may sink lower and lower. ” 

The mother was silent for a moment; then she shook 
her head sadly and said : 

‘‘That might not be so, Nina. Some elderly man might 
be willing or thankful to marry you, an experienced 
man who could measure his sacrifice ; or some man who 
might have become so indifferent to the world that it 
would be no sacrifice to him at all ; and if he were a 
worthy man, too, I would say, ‘Take him, you’ve a right 
to do so, and it’s your duty for the child’s sake ; ’ but this 
handsome young creature — no, no, no, Nina, don’t do it, 
don’t !” 

The mother stroked her daughter’s arm gently, as if 
she were quite a little girl. 

“Nina, there is one thing, certainly, and it’s the prin- 
cipal thing, and I’ve forgotten to ask you how it is. 
Nina, for God’s sake, speak the truth to me; do you 
love him?’’ 

Nina took a deep breath, and passed her hands slowly 
over her eyes, first one hand then the other. 

“Love?” she murmured, “love? As if I could do that 
now. That’s over forever — something is dead here” — 
she pointed to her breast — “something that no one will 
ever bring to life again ! No ; but I like him well, more 
than well ; his nature is one with which I am in full 
sympathy ; it does me good to be near him ; he produces 
on me the effect of fresh, health-giving air and a warm 
sunbeam. My gratitude to him would be unbounded, 
and I should do everything in my power to make his life 
a pleasure to him.” 

“Everything in your power!” said the mother, 
wretchedly. 

Nina was about to make some dry, sharp reply to this, 
when Litzie moved uneasily in the large bed where she 
slept by her mother’s side, opened her eyes, and uttered 
a little dissatisfied cry. Nina went up to her, stroked her 
little head, kissed and quieted her till the little one, stam. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


133 


mering some fond unintelligible words, went to sleep 
again ; then Nina went up close to her mother, and said 
more softly than before : 

“Mother, we must understand one another clearly in 
this matter. I don’t take the small, selfish views of it 
that you seem to think. As for the change for the better 
such a marriage would be for me that weighs little with 
me ; but think of Litzie. Whether I go to ruin in one 
way or another, what does it matter? But — the child. If 
my position remains as now she will grow up without 
a name, without family relations, without any sort of 
bupport in life. What will become of her ; pretty, as she 
shows every probability of being? Oh, Heavens ! we’d 
better not try to realize it, either of us. Just think ; you 
yourself say that if some elderly man came forward, one 
for whom I was not too bad, one not too good for me, it 
would be not merely my right but my duty to marry, for 
the child’s sake. But such a man and of such age may 
perhaps never appear, very probably not, and ought I to 
throw away the chance of securing a respectable future 
for my child because of a few wire-drawn scruples? The 
fact is, we are both groping in the dark : how he would 
take my confession neither of us can tell — but I hope, I 
hope, he will forgive, and I cannot help clinging tightly to 
that hope as to a sheet-anchor. A good deal depends 
upon the way the matter is put to him ; I — I — well, it is 
the truth, the very truth, that never did a girl fall with 
less of guilty thought or purpose— into misfortune, than 
I did.” 

The mother said not a word ; deeply as she loved her 
daughter ib was impossible for her to participate in this 
way of looking at the matter. 

The daughter waited a little, and then knelt at her 
mother’s feet and put her hand on the old woman’s lap 
and said, almost in a whisper : 

“Mother, you are hard, very hard. Those— those— who 
have never stumbled themselves are so, all of them ; if 
you think me wicked, tell him so, so far as I am con- 
cerned ; yes, tell him so, yourself— but tell him, too, how 
much I have suffered— and tell him, moreover, how 


134 


BROKEN WINGS. 


great, how very great a treasure it is he offers me and 
how deeply, deeply, deeply I feel it, and how grateful I 
shall always be to him — do it, mother, dear, sweet mother, 
do it — for the little one’s sake !” 

The mother remained dumb for a moment, and gazed 
steadily at vacancy, with a stony, wretched glare in 
which there seemed a touch of madness almost ; then 
she put the kneeling girl away from her and raised her- 
self, as though every limb pained her, to her feet, and 
said curtly and in tones expressing unalterable, inexora- 
ble decision : 

“No!” 

And then the daughter, too, gathered herself together, 
and looked at her mother with a dark and angry look. 

“Be it so ! If you will not speak with him, I will ; yes, 
I will, even if I die of shame as I speak. I will do it, for 
Litzie’s sake ; and as for him — he will forgive me!” 


Nina spent half the night in writing letters which she 
tore up as fast as she wrote them. None of them seemed 
to her so framed as to insure success, in not one was there 
that warmth which she was sure would go straight to 
Klaus’s heart. Finally, she tore in pieces the last sheet 
which she had filled with words she felt to be useless, and 
determined to sleep upon the matter, if sleep she could. 
And, after long reflection, she determined that what had 
to be told must be said face to face : and then she slept. 

But Klaus slept not at all that night ; he was too agi- 
tated, too highly strung with love, hope, fear, expectation 
for sleep. And, notwithstanding the ugly words that 
had fallen from his friend, his pure soul had not been 
clouded by one moment’s suspicion of the truth. The 
fact is that, in this case, as so often happens, a warning 
given by one person’s dry intelligence to another’s warm 
heart had not only failed of its purpose, but worked the 
exactly contrary effect. The hint which Jens had al- 


BROKEN WINGS. 


135 


lowed himself to give about Nina seemed something so 
monstrous to Klaus that he could see nothing in his 
friend’s suspicion but cynicism, arising out of the ex- 
perience in depravity unfortunately gained in the society 
* which the artist had allowed to gather around him for 
some years. He attributed Nina’s refusal to give him an 
immediate answer only to maidenly reserve and shyness. 
She had been a little startled, certainly, and had changed 
color when he told her of his love ; but it was not diffi- 
cult to see that his words impressed her far from unfa- 
vorably. But, for all that, it had wounded him in some 
degree that she had found nothing better to answer his 
frank words of honorable love, coming so deeply from 
his heart, than half perplexed phrases : "I feel more hon- 
ored than I can say by your offer, Mr. von Olden — but I 
— I — pardon me, I must, I really must speak with my 
mother before I can — before 1 can give you a final an- 
swer.” That sounded so empty, so conventional. He 
had imagined quite a different issue ; if things had been 
as in his secret soul he had hoped they would be, she 
would not have answered him with any words at all. 
There would have been a look, a smile, an almost imper- 
ceptible movement of her frame, and these would have 
been ample warrant of his right to take her in his arms 
and press his first kiss on her lips. He felt hurt that it 
had not been so, and then scolded himself for being silly 
and exacting. What was there in Mm, a*fter all, to justify 
the supposition that he could have inspired passion so de- 
cided as that in a creature so noble, so incomparable? 
Besides, that sort of unrestraint in love — so he tried to 
convince himself— did not become a girl of high breed- 
ing and careful bringing up; he ought to be quite satis- 
fied if passion took its own time to declare itself in her, 
slowly, perhaps, but surely ard lastingly. 

And the hours passed away, one by one, which sepa- 
rated him from his next interview with her, passed 
slowly, but surely. 

The forenoon was already much advanced, and he had 
seen, as yet, nothing of her. To join the ladies at the 
second breakfast in the ordinary way, without having 


136 


BROKEN WINGS. 


spoken first with Nina, would have been insupportable to 
him — impossible. 

Then it suddenly struck him that, after all, he could 
not expect Nina to seek him on such an occasion; he 
must try to take the initiative himself. 

He asked the people of the hotel if “the Austrian la- 
dies,” as they were generally called in St. Valerie, were 
in their room. 

“No; the ladies have gone to the Casino.” 

He went after them thither ; and, while some way off, 
saw the mother and daughter sitting on the sea-front of 
the buildings. Litzie was playing with a few other chil- 
dren on the sands. The old woman, who always smiled 
so kindly upon him when he appeared, was now unmis- 
takably disturbed when she caught sight of him, and 
Nina was pale as death. He was seized with a presenti- 
ment of approaching pain and trouble, but what shape 
it would take there was nothing to suggest. The hand 
which the old lady held out to him was as cold as ice and 
trembled as he held it, but he touched it with his lips as 
usual, and then said, in a somewhat uncertain but tender 
voice : 

“Has Mdlle. Nina not informed you of the request 
which I ventured to prefer to her yesterday? Have you 
not been able to help her to a decision?” he smiled 
slightly. “She was not able to make up her mind yes- 
terday, but had tcptake counsel with you, inadame.” 

He was about to draw the hand of the baroness Once 
more, coaxingly, to his lips, when she drew it out of his 
somewhat abruptly. 

“My daughter has, indeed, informed me of the fact that 
you— that you— offered her your hand yesterday, ” said 
she now, and her voice sounded strange and curiously re- 
strained. “And aCll the answer that I can, for my part, 
give you, is that an alliance with you is what I cannot 
possibly give my consent to ! ” These words were uttered 
in a dry monotone, such as the deaf and dumb speak in ; 
and the sound of them was terrible. 

Klaus nearly fell to the ground under the unexpected 

blow. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


137 


*% 

‘‘This — from you, madame ! from you !” he stammered. 
‘ ‘And that is all you have to say to me ! All ! You say 
that to my face, without one word more?” 

“There is nothing but that which I can say to you. I 
entreat you, don’t torture me!” she replied, still in the 
same terrible unnatural voice ; then, turning with sudden 
passion to her daughter, she groaned out: “Nina, you 
might have spared me this ! ’ ’ 

At first he had turned very pale, then he became quite 
red ; he struck the sand in an awkward, aimless sort of 
way with his stick, and then fastened his eyes on Nina. 
“And you?” he asked. 

She drew a deep breath and looked at her mother, who 
turned her head away. 

“I cannot bring myself to allow you to part with us 
under the impression of this horrible and unmerited 
cruelty,” she said. “It is necessary that you should be 
informed why it is that my mother can never give her 
consent ; but I cannot speak with you here. Come.” 

She led the way with firm, decided step. The mother 
gazed at them with horror. She felt now how foolishly 
she had acted ; and that, by her uncompromising attitude, 
what she so strongly desired to prevent she had simply 
made it easier and more inevitable for her daughter 
to do. 


Nina led the young man to the dancing saloon ; it was 
always quite empty at this hour ; nobody would disturb 
them here. 

She sank exhausted on one of the divans that lined the 
wall, covered with red velvet. Klaus seated himself by 
her side. 

“Well?” he murmured. 

Difficult indeed was it for her to speak, but at last she 
managed to say : 

“I may not listen to your suit, but I cannot bring it 


138 


BROKEN WINGS. 


over my heart to let you think that I do not know how to 
value aright the treasure of love that you offer me. I 
cannot become your wife — because I am not worthy of 
you !” 

“Nina!” he ejaculated; his tongue seemed glued to 
the roof of his mouth. 

Her head sank, her voice wavered, and then she said, 
in firm tones : 

“Litzie is my child !” 

That he would recoil at what she had to tell him she 
had expected and had prepared herself for ; but the hor- 
rible change which came over his face was something she 
had not at all imagined possible and taxed her self-pos- 
session to the utmost. She had conjured up something 
quite unforeseen, and was frightened. He became as pale 
as ashes, bent toward her, supporting himself on the di- 
van with one hand ; and he uttered some indistinct words 
which were quite unintelligible to her. 

“You seie that anything further is impossible between 
us,” she said. “I ought to have warded this off. I ought 
to have spared you this — but I had no idea, indeed not — 
that anything of the sort was possible. But, as things 
have turned out, I thought— that I owed it you to tell 
you the exact truth. I might have kept it back from any- 
body else, but from you I could not. You ought to know 
how utterly wretched I am, and — and— how much I 
could have loved you if it could have been permitted me. 
I have no other consolation to offer you for the pain I 
needs must cause you, but I can at least offer that. Fare- 
well, and may God protect you!” She took his hand, 
drew it to her lips, kissed it, and let it fall. All hope of 
such issue as she had dreamed of had left her, and with 
it all the ingenious reasoning with which she had op- 
posed her mother. 

She was hastening from the room with her head bowed 
low, when she heard footsteps behind her, then a hand 
was laid on her arm— not the light warm hand that she 
knew, the hand that had seemed always as if it were 
m'oved to caress her whenever it accidentally touched 
her in the performance of some little service or other— 


BROKEN WINGS. 


139 


no, this hand was heavy and cold, more like the hand of 
a dead man than a living. 

She turned to him ; he looked as if he had been smitten 
with sudden and serious illness. 

Twice he tried to speak, and twice he failed, and when 
he did speak his voice had a pitiable sound indeed. 

“How — how — did it all happen. How — who— as you 
have told me what you have, I should wish to know all?” 

He drew her much further back in the room and made 
her seat herself again, and placed himself by her side 
with sunken head and his hands between his knees. She 
told him everything, simply, humbly — all about the 
morning when her mother arrived just as she was pre- 
paring to go to her death, and how she, since, had sun- 
dered herself from the world and earned her bread with 
pain and difficulty, putting by all she could for Litzie's 
provision. 

She told him all the truth, honestly enough as that 
truth appeared in her own eyes. But she belonged, poor 
thing, to the class of women who, however much they 
may really suffer from the burden of the misfortunes for 
which they are responsible, can never see that responsi- 
bility, but are able only to see their misfortune ; women 
whose privilege it is to find consolation in self-deception, 
even in the most humiliating circumstances. So, as* she 
put the matter to him, she had been simply a victim, a 
martyr. He had prevented her leaving him, so hope 
sprang up again within her. As she went on she looked 
anxiously for some word from him which should lift the 
burden of her anxiety from her. And she stopped, from 
time to time, to give him opportunity to utter it ; but no 
such word passed his lips. He sat by her in complete 
silence, always in the same position, his frame bowed, 
his hands between his knees. 

She could not make up her mind to come to an end of 
her story, even when she had said all there was to say ; 
she gave him many a sidelong glance, but he remained 
dumb. Could it be that, in spite of all the extenuating 
circumstances with which she tried to make things look 
better than they were in her sad confession, he did not 


140 


BROKEN WINGS. 


find in it the excusing element and atoning temper which 
she would fain have had him find, and he would fain 
have found? 

Then there came a long pause, and she made as though 
to rise to her feet. 

“As far as I am concerned, I am now broken in to my 
situation; my own fate concerns me little ; but when I 
look at the child and think of her future the very heart 
in my body seems to break in two. It seems to me some- 
times that I must take her in my arms and fling myself 
with her into the river !” 

Even then he said nothing. Then she rose, quite ex- 
hausted ; he made some sort of scarcely voluntary, un- 
certain movement — but remained seated and let her 
depart. 

Half stunned, scarcely knowing what she was doing, 
she went back to her mother, who was still sitting before 
the Casino with an unread newspaper on her knees. When 
she saw Nina she was startled out of all her severity, so 
distorted was her daughter's face. 

“Well,” she began, with difficulty, “have you made 
your confession to him?” 

“Yes, I have told him all — all,” answered Nina, hoarse- 
ly, with her eyes, from which all the light had gone, 
fixed on the blue-green sea. 

“And he?” Nina shrugged her shoulders. 

“What answer did he make?” the mother insisted. 

“None!” 

The mother recoiled. At that moment she observed a 
man coming, with dragging, painful steps, out of the 
door of the dan6ing saloon on to the shore. She hardly 
recognized him at first, he seemed a head, at least, 
shorter than before. He had to pass Litzie, who was 
busily engaged with her little friends just then in stick- 
ing a red flag on a fortress built with sand. 

When she saw him she forgot flag, fort and play- 
mates, and ran to him, clasping his knees. He shrank 
from her, and freed himself from her grasp with a sort 
of shudder. The child began to cry ; he stood still — and 
turned back. Then he lifted the little one into his arms, 


BROKEN WINGS. 


141 


kissed her again and again, and left the shore with hur- 
ried steps. That same afternoon he left the place. 


Three days passed. Nina looked like a corpse. She 
never spoke ; she ate nothing ; the thought of the humili- 
ation which she had so fruitlessly taken upon herself 
kept gnawing at her day and night. The poor mother’s 
very life seemed to ebb away with compassion for her 
daughter. But as for Klaus, her frame of mind toward 
him changed and was now bitter, even hostile. If she 
had thought it wrong in Nina to challenge him to so 
great a sacrifice, she thought it ten times mor8 wrong in 
him not to have shown for a moment any disposition to 
make it. 

. “I overvalued him ; we have all overvalued him ; he is 
nothing but an average human creature, after all ! Never 
in all my life was I so mistaken in anybody,” she said, 
and kissed Nina. 

Yes, three days had passed. Nina looked like a corpse. 
And the fourth day was coming to its close. The grand- 
mother had gone out for a walk with Litzie. Nina could 
hardly be induced to put her foot out of her little apart- 
ment. There she sat now, with her head on the table, 
worn out, in extremity of grief. The sun shone bril- 
liantly ; the red flags around the Casino fluttered merrily 
in the light sea breeze — their color seemed all aglow' in 
contrast with the dull blue-green of the waves, over which 
the gulls were flying with their strong circling flight. But 
to all this beauty Nina was. dead. She sat there with her 
head on her arms, in grief too deep for tears. 

A step approached her door, she heard it not. There 
was a knock ; once, twice. She lifted her head as if 
startled from a dream. 

“Who is it?” she asked. 

“I,” answered a voice which she knew and did not 


142 


BROKEN WINGS. 


know. The voice was so much thinner than it had been. 
She started up, breathless, and her heart beat violently. 

“Come in,” she cried. 

And he stepped in. He was still paler, much paler than 
usual, but otherwise quiet and collected. He looked one 
who had found the patience needful to bear a great load 
of suffering without finding any alleviation of the burden 
in that patience. He made no further greeting, but went 
up to her and placed his hand on her arm. It was now 
once again the light, warm hand every touch of which 
was like a caress. 

“Nina,” he said, simply, “will you pardon me for tak- 
ing so long before I could master myself?” 

She could not speak, she could only sob and cover his 
hand with kisses. He withdrew it and clasped her in 
his arms ; she laid her head on his shoulder, and he mur- 
mured softly : 

“I did not think it open to me to come once again until 
I could make sure of myself, and be quite, quite certain 
that I should never torture you, never wound you by any 
reference to the great misfortune which might have 
crushed your life forever. We will bury it out of sight 
for all time, shall we not, Nina? So!” and, as he spoke, 
he pressed a long warm kiss upon her mouth. 

It seemed to her as though the burden which she had 
so long dragged about with her, poor tired thing, had 
suddenly slipped from her and vanished utterly and for- 
ever. But it was not so. One burden had left her, but 
she had taken upon her another, and this one she had to 
carry from that moment instead of the old one— that 
was all. 

“My saviour !” she stammered, in her great happiness, 
still clinging to him, when her mother entered with 
Litzie. And it would have been difficult to say whether 
what the baroness felt at what she saw was terror or de- 
light — perhaps both. 

“Nina ! For God’s sake !” she exclaimed. 

Then Klaus went up to her. 

“Are you quite determined not to have mo for c, son- 
in-law?” said he beseechingly, coaxingly, with some- 


BROKEN WINGS. 




143 

thing of his old joyous spirits in his glance ; alas, only 
something ! 

Ah, no ! The old glance of those eyes was there no 
more ; they looked like window panes dripping with rain, 
and suddenly smitten by a sunbeam ; a light was there, 
but no more than a veiled, struggling light. 

“Under the circumstances, quite determined,” said the 
mother, in a dull voice. 

“Hush, hush!” he cried. “We have passed our word 
to each other that that shall never, never be alluded to. 
You see, surely you see, that I have not lightly come to 
my resolve, and that should be some security to you as to 
the future. Madame — no, mamma, will you not let me 
at least try to do something to compensate for the world’s 
frightful cruelty and injustice?” 

The old woman looked at him tenderly, but she said 
nothing. 

The only person entirely satisfied with the state of 
affairs was Litzie ; but, it must be confessed, not until 
Klaus, who had at first seemed to overlook her alto- 
gether, lifted her in his arms and began to tease and pet 
her as before. And then there was no end to the kissing 
and laughing and tender snuggling ; such spirits and ex- 
citement had not been seen in the little thing now for 
some days. 

“She is the one most deeply in love of all the three 
here,” said Nina, unreflectingly. The old baroness 
turned away as she heard the words. And Klaus quiv- 
ered slightly, like a person with a sensitive ear assailed 
by a discoid. His glance fell on Nina across the gold- 
brown head of the child, and in that glance there was 
astonishment, reproach. And now, for the first time, he 
saw that there were little wrinkles in her face and about 
her mouth something that looked like a premonition of 
old age. 


“It was not right ; it was not right. You ought not to 
have accepted his sacrifice,” murmured the baroness, 


144 


BROKEN WINGS. 


when Klaus had at length withdrawn. “Stop what you 
are doing, I cannot; but bless it I can just as little, 
God help me ! Ill will come of it, mark what I say — 
sooner or later — ill, ill, ill !” 

There, without, the waves broke unceasingly on the 
shore— and above the helpless cry and sob that each 
made as it came up to the shore and struggled and per- 
ished rang the hoarse shrill cry of some sea-gull. 


He married her — shall we say for love? Nay, rather 
for compassion ; that tragic alacrity of sacrifice and ex- 
alted tendency to self-annihilation which so often char- 
acterize very young creatures whose nature is tender 
and deep ; and than which there is perhaps nothing in 
this world so full of danger and so fraught with beauty. 

He had entered upon a life of sacrifice, and he was de- 
termined that the sacrifice should be entire ; he would 
abate the weight of the burden he took upon himself not 
one jot, not one jot. Nay, if there was any addition to it 
that could be made, it should be made. He gave his 
name not only to Nina, but to her chid. He had never 
hitherto uttered the smallest lie in ail his life, either to 
commend or defend himself ; but he now found it strange- 
ly easy to put forward falsehood to act as a protective 
barrier for the lives whose fortunes he had undertaken 
to guard. And, indeed, it is a peculiarity of idealists of 
his type that they are so often induced to do things for 
the love of others which would have revolted their very 
soul if done for any guilty advantage to themselves. 

After long reflection, he came to the conclusion that 
the best course, indeed the only one open to him, to make 
Nina’s existence possible at all among his owr, people at 
home, was to take the responsibility for the child upon 
his own shoulders, so that Nina might assume the role of 
the loving wife overlooking, nay forgiving, in her loving 
magnanimity, a sin of her husband’s youth. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


145 


It did not occur to Nina, whose breath came freely 
once again now that her long suspended woman’s dig- 
nity and honor were restored to her, that the effect of this 
arrangement would be that Litzie would cease, to all 
intents and purposes, to be her child. Besides, she and 
Klaus had settled it between themselves that Litzie was 
never to know anything about these legalities and con- 
trivances, and was always to look upon Nina as her real 
mother. 

Of all the things he had done for her nothing seemed 
so precious and good in Nina’s sight as this device for 
freeing her from the special burden of her past. She 
was now quite happy. And he? Well, it was not pos- 
sible for him to be spared the pain which every sincere 
soul must feel that has to go through life under the bur- 
den of a lie, -even if the motive of that lie has its founda- 
tion in noble, disinterested compassion, in merciful love. 

But it was one thing to utter this falsehood and all the 
details it involved looking straight in the eyes of inquisi- 
tive persons, as he so often had to do, and quite another 
to try to make his innocent conscience feel at home in 
such a situation, when he and that conscience stood con- 
fronting each other in the solitude of his chamber. 

He realized this when he went with Nina to Copenhagen, 
some months after his marriage, to make his wife known 
to a. married sister there, and also to his eldest brother, 
who held a high official position at the capital. He found 
himself obliged to utter falsehood after falsehood, and, 
at last, felt the conclusion forced on him that it could 
not be a right thing to bring Nina into the confidential 
relations with his stainless family circle which were im- 
mediately formed, Nina being regarded, of course, as of 
flawless character by them. He, for his part, might par- 
don and overlook— he had done so— but to introduce Nina 
under false pretenses into society was a different matter, 
and that he felt was forbidden to him. And, when these 
thoughts took possession of him, he began to regard him- 
self as a deceptive person, and the rescue of his wife’s 
reputation wrought by this tissue of falsehoods seemed 
to him something like a forgery. His peace of mind 


146 


BROKEN WINGS. 


began to forsake him, and he did not regain it until he 
threw up his commission and retired altogether into ob- 
scurity. Nina was much grieved at his resolve to do 
this, but for his sake only. As for her own wishes, it 
was no sacrifice to her to withdraw from the world. In 
spite of all the external support of her life, afforded by 
her new condition, she was so tired and broken in spirit 
by past suffering that any sort of ltfe now sufficed to 
satisfy her, liberated as she was from the worst of those 
former griefs and anxieties. Besides, she never forgot 
for one moment that she owed all this new peace to her 
husband, and felt it to be her duty to comply absolutely 
with all his wishes. 

The place which he selected to reside in was a village 
in Holstein, situate between the marshes and the sea. 
His old ties with old Ocean were the only ones which he 
could not endure wholly to break off. The village stood 
rather high, and was separated from the sea by ground 
which fell rapidly, almost precipitously, and protected 
it from the high spring tides. A wooden staircase led 
from the sand dunes above down to the shore. Klaus 
knew but little about the village, and was unknown 
there. The only thing which connected it with his past 
and endeared it to him was a grave, the grave of his 
favorite sister, who was buried at Elmstadt. She had 
been the pastor’s wife. It was a love match. He was 
quite young in his vocation, and his position in life was 
not up to the social level maintained by her own family. 
Her brothers and sisters, excepting Klaus, never recon- 
ciled themselves to this modest alliance ; but he, and his 
mother, had stood by the humble and loving couple faith- 
fully and fondly. 

She had died in childbed, and her husband, who was 
consumptive, soon followed her. They rested side by 
side in the churchyard, in the middle of which there was 
an old-fashioned gray church, with high narrow win- 
dows of pointed Gothic, and the walls of which were 
supported by flying buttresses. 

One side of the house which Klaus and his family 
went to live in looked upon a narrow street and upon 


BROKEN WINGS. 


147 


the churchyard which it bounded. It was far from be- 
ing a melancholy view. Life was far from being a very 
busy thing with the inhabitants of Elmstadt, so they had 
plenty of time to give to their dead. In summer time 
the gray gravestones rose out of a perfect forest of flow- 
ers, and there were others, to suit the changing seasons ; 
and the houses of the Frisian peasants, with their high 
gables, were so situate that from all of them glimpses 
could be had of this haven of peace, with its wealth of 
blooms. 

This village, or tiny town it might be called, was, in 
truth, exceedingly pretty, dreamily sequestrate, full of 
character; the houses, without and within, full of old- 
fashioned and picturesque charm ; the walls of the rooms 
were mostly covered with Dutch tiles, painted blue ; the 
beams of the low ceilings were of the same color, and 
were decorated with all sorts of little pictures which 
were nailed to them; the beds, with their flower-pat- 
terned quilts, were, generally, placed in alcoves, sepa- 
rated from the room they were in by a framework of 
carved wood gayly painted. 

In the windows of Klaus’s house, which took up nearly 
the whole of the projecting part of the walls, and had 
very small panes of glass, there stood colored flower- 
pots, most of which had prickly cactuses, of weird ap- 
pearance, growing in them, among which there was, in 
a brass cage, a parrot of extraordinarily brilliant plu- 
mage, who screamed all sorts of things in some foreign 
language with which he was evidently very familiar, but 
of which the villagers understood not one word. 

The houses had little gardens in front of them, in which 
flowers bloomed late in each season,* and only for a short 
space, but were all the richer and fuller for this brevity 
of their life ; and the village was full of lime-trees which, 
perhaps, were not so big as some in other places, but 
whose perfume was all the stronger and sweeter for their 
small size. 

Behind Elmstadt stretched the marshes, covering much 
ground, and redolent with the perfume of thyme and 
other wild plants, with a few peacefully grazing sheep 


148 


BROKEN WINGS. 


scattered about, mostly coupled together in pairs. The 
dikes, in which were hedges of white thorn here and 
there, were carefully tended, and in the distance was a 
windmill, cutting the horizon with its gigantic red and 
black sails ; and, far below, at the feet of the little town, 
was the sea with the perpetual lament of its majestic and 
deep-sounding waves. Klaus could hardly have picked 
out for himself anywhere a prettier nsst to dwell in, cer- 
tainly none more calculated to lull him into the life of 
dreamy contemplation, which, under its conditions as he 
had made them, would be most supportable and satisfac- 
tory a life to lead. 

But it was far from being easy to him to familiarize 
himself with .such a somnolent type of existence. His 
spirit did, at last, accustom itself to this tranquil life 
without action ; but, before it did, there were months in 
which his thought knew, as it were, no sleep, during 
which he suffered from what may be called a terrible 
moral insomnia ; and these months were frightful. 
While this time lasted he was painfully haunted by 
the feeling that his life might have been so utterly differ- 
ent in its complexion, and he felt like a soul in prison , 
like an animal tied to a post grazing all the time in one 
impassable circle. And he had to keep the most careful 
watch over* himself from morn to eve lest he might give 
way to bursts of ill temper and passion, of which he 
knew that afterward he would be bitterly ashamed. He 
had thought that, before deciding to ally himself with 
Nina, every pro and con of the question had been fully 
weighed by him. True it is that his reflections then had 
been far-reaching and deep ; but they had not, after all, 
fully taken in the reality of things ; they took cognizance 
only of the fancies conjured up by his own idealism. 
Everything had then seemed so different, so very differ- 
ent! He had imagined that his enthusiastic devotion 
would last forever, and that the delight of lifting a heavy 
burden of misfortune from a creature he so deeply loved 
would endow his existence with a sort of consecrated 
joy. He had persuaded himself that it was impossible 
for him ever to look back and regret, to yearn for what 


BROKEN WINGS. 


149 


he, then, so fully and freely renounced. And now it was 
quite otherwise ; do what he would, his young life, so 
full of suppressed power, cried aloud in its every vein, 
pulse and thought, for what he had then given up. 

All this misery was enhanced by the unhappy fact that 
his love for Nina soon ceased to wear its first impassioned 
character. In her soul he found, though he searched 
faithfully, nothing that corresponded to the beauty of 
her face ; and, worst of all, while her unhappiness was 
on her her being, outward and inward, was invested 
with a certain poetic and pathetic charm ; but this was 
dispelled by her happier circumstances ; and he it was 
who had operated this change. The subdued melancholy, 
which became her so well and made her face strangely 
mystical in its expression, he had himself driven away. 
She soon became a cheerful, amiable, everyday creature, 
grew stouter, gained a blooming countenance, and — aged, 
unfortunately, too. 

The intellectual interests which she had entertained in 
her youth, with more of affectation and self-esteem than 
genuine appreciation, had now died out in her. In fact, 
she soon grew to be averse to intellectual movement al- 
together, as she did to everything which had a tendency 
to agitate or excite her. Every word she uttered, every 
movement she made, seemed to express, and that to the 
exclusion of everything else, the satisfaction of a creat- 
ure, tortured and tried so long, at being at last freed 
from her load of anxiety and misery and allowed to take 
her fill of rest and peace. She was a good housekeeper, 
always looked well and well dressed, and did everything 
within the limits of her intelligence to make her husband’s 
life pleasant to him. But what he had looked for in this 
marriage was passion, enthusiasm, an entire merger of 
the life of each in the other’s life— what he had imagined 
was a deeper and more noble poetry in their relations, 
overhung as they were by shadows of the past, than could 
be in conditions of less qualified happiness ; and of all 
this there was nothing, nothing ; not a trace. 

Her intelligence, in fact, was but mediocre ; she had 
outgrown the exaggerated and too intense manifestations 


150 


BROKEN WINGS. 


of such mind as she possessed which had been usual with 
her in her youth ; and that was, so far, to her advantage. 
But real depth of any kind she had never possessed. He 
•found that, in intercourse with her, he had to suppress 
rather than express himself ; try as he would she could 
not understand him. She always listened sweetly, but 
her auswers were either beside the mark or quite con- 
ventional. It was not long before he was forced to the 
conclusion that it was indeed as his friend Larsen had 
said, and that he had created a human being purely and 
simply out of his own fancy, and that no such being as 
the Nina of his imagination existed at all. 

Still, if she was not what he had expected, she was an 
amiable, lovable creature, of sweet temper, full of pa- 
thetic gratitude, and all this appealed strongly to his 
sense of duty, so that he did his best to make her happy. 
And he did so with faithful observance ; and, being a 
man of rare and high personal dignity, he allowed no 
soul to see or know anything of the disappointment of 
his life. Whatever might pass 'syithin him, no excited 
word ever passed his lips} none, at least, when his foot 
had crossed the threshold of his house. Away from it 
he did sometimes let the trouble within him find a vent 
in a solitary storm of passion ; at home, never. 

And, little by little, this internal agitation grew less 
and less, as is the case with all prisoners who are abso- 
lutely without any prospect of freedom. He was one 
who could never learn to creep ; but he did, at last, learn 
to bow his proud, tall head so as not to hurt it against the 
roof which was far too low for him, but which he had to 
live under. And as he soon found some occupation- 
complete inaction being impossible to his energetic tem- 
perament — the monotonous and uniform tenor of his exist- 
ence soon became a little more varied and satisfactory to 
him. He soon earned the thanks and respect of the vil- 
lagers by various measures. He had a little harbor built ; 
he founded a school of navigation for young seamen. He 
undertook the task of teaching them, at first only to kill 
time, but the work soon interested him deeply. He was 
one who could do nothing without throwing his soul into 


BROKEN WINGS. 


151 


it more or less, and so it was now. He soon imparted to 
his teaching a character and a range higher and wider 
than usual, and read deeply to enlarge his acquirements. 
He interested himself actively on behalf of every one of 
his pupils, and took pains to see to the advancement of 
the young people, and had the satisfaction of knowing 
that he was doing much good. So that he soon became 
the object of the warm affection of all the seafaring folk 
of the neighborhood, and especially of those with whom 
he came in personal contact. His pupils were ready to 
go through fire and water for him. He was able to 
gratify to the full his old passion for the sea. He bought 
a little sailing boat, with which he often put out very far, 
sometimes alone, sometimes with a single sailor. Now 
and again he had to hasten — with what joy ! — to the 
rescue of the crew of some wrecked ship in answer to its 
desperate signals of distress. On such occasions he was 
indeed in his element, always foremost, always where 
the need was greatest. He paid the expenses of the life- 
boat out of his own pocket, and more than once, in cases 
that seemed absolutely hopeless, performed prodigies 
with it in the way of saving people. And the thought 
of these things kept him up and fortified him. On such 
occasions he would return home thoroughly fagged and 
thoroughly satisfied and in a mood thoroughly to enjoy 
his peaceful and picturesque little home. 

And the severely critical estimate of Nina which had 
been inevitable in the earliest t days of his disillusion soon 
became modified by the fact of that disillusion becoming 
a familiar thing. He was no longer in love with her, 
but; he grew to be fond of her. After the first year they 
lived together like people who had been married twenty 
years, a life of mutual kindness and of peace. Her deep 
gratitude, inspired by her liberation from her former in- 
supportable condition, operated to smooth ail that had 
been uneven and undisciplined in her temper and dispo- 
sition ; she was gentle, compliant, and full of the little 
observances and carefulnesses which go so far ; and, hap- 
pily, she had none of the obtrusive tenderness which 
makes a wife insupportable to a husband not deeply 


152 


BROKEN WINGS. 


enamored of her. When he did not wish to talk she 
let him be silent ; if he preferred to be alone she did not 
go after him to his own room. 

Her talent for music, which was -her strong point, if 
she had any, gave him pleasure, and the tou£h of her 
soft cool hand did him good. She never complained of 
her servants, and his meals were punctually served and 
seen to by herself. It was with her as with many too 
intense girls, whose mental unrest arises from hysteria 
rather than from intellectual force or gifts ; as she reached 
riper years she developed quite a taste and skill in cook- 
ery. And she found an especial pleasure in consulting 
all the culinary predilections of her husband, even when 
these seemed something inconceivable to her Austrian 
palate. And better eel soup, chocolate soup and red grits 
than she set before him all Holstein had not to show. 
She did her best to spoil him, not so much as a loving 
woman does her husband, but rather like a tender 
mother does with her favorite son. 

And if she did not love him as he had expected, and as 
a wife can love a husband, at least she looked up to him 
as to some far higher and superior being. It was some- 
thing that acted like a miracle on her soul, which could 
never shake wholly off the memory of Tessendy’s cyni- 
cism, to be in this constant intercourse with a man in the 
light of whose compassion a sinning creature was thus 
transfigured into sacredness, one who pitied the broken 
life of one who had fallen so truly and deeply that he 
had no eyes for its stains. 


As far as the outer world was concerned, they may 
be said to have had, then, no intercourse with it. Let- 
ters from Denmark came with long intervals between 
them ; for Klaus’s retirement from service, with no as- 
signable reasons, produced an unfavorable impression 
upon his people which endured. Froip Austria letters 


BROKEN WINGS. 


153 


came with greater frequency. Not infrequently there 
came from Denmark or Austria a photograph, generally 
of some new little addition to the family which neither 
Klaus nor Nina had ever seen, an addition which, as 
they got in the way of saying, had occurred “after their 
time.” 

Nina’s brothers both got on famously, and made quite 
a “career” for themselves and married well. And the 
blessing of children soon followed for both. The old 
baroness, who had returned to her own country imme- 
diately after Nina’s marriage, was the one who wrote 
most frequently; but the warmth of her affection for 
her daughter cooled somewhat now that compassion had 
ceased to keep it up. The sin which had broken down 
her daughter’s life seemed to the mother comparatively 
venial and had been generously forgiven ; but she could 
not forgive the calculating selfishness with which her 
daughter had re-established herself at so tremendous a 
cost to another. She had protested to the last against 
Nina’s marriage with Klaus Olden, and was only with 
difficulty prevailed on to be present at the melancholy 
wedding. 

The most affectionate part of her letters was that which 
concerned Litzie, about whom she put no end of ques- 
tions to her daughter ; and she never failed to send Klaus 
her warmest words of remembrance. And often she 
sent little presents, which were returned in far ampler 
measure. Klaus generally went to Hamburg, which 
was only an hour and a half by railway from Elm- 
stadt, to select these gifts. The first time he went he 
asked Nina to accompany him, which she, with the gentle 
compliance now usual with her, did, to please him. But 
when she saw that he had asked her only because he 
thought it would give her pleasure she entreated him to 
let her remain at home. She had become unaccustomed 
to the excitement and noise of a large city, and it was 
painful to her to meet strange faces. And, so, she grad- 
ually came to feel the warmest and strongest preference 
for Elmstadt, its country beauties, its true-hearted Fri- 
sian people. She loved her house, her garden, her poor 


154 


BROKEN WINGS. 


people, for whom she did everything that Klaus sug- 
gested or permitted, and it was no little. Klaus was 
one of those who think that saving is worse than steal- 
ing— that is, when the saving is done at one’s neighbor’s 
and not at one’s own expense; and, as he was tolerably 
well off and his wants were few, he gave lavishly. 

Nina wrote home long accounts of Elmstadt, and, in 
a shy, respectful way, begged her mother to come and 
see them. And Klaus, who always thought lovingly of 
his mother-in-law, always added to hers his own hearty 
and pressing request that she would come, in a post- 
script of his own firm, large handwriting. , The old 
woman was always deeply moved by these invitations, 
and promised to visit them, and never did. She was 
not actuated by any distinct principle or purpose in this. 
No ! what was done was done ; she really intended to 
come, more than once, but something always happened 
to prevent it. Her children in Austria were all the time 
clamoring for her presence, she was continually running 
from one christening to another, so she had no time left 
for Holstein ; and, as age crept on her, the little troubles 
connected with the journey seemed to make it more and 
more difficult for her. 

And, as time went, Elmstadt became more and more 
the center of the world to Klaus. Contemporary prob- 
lems and questions interested him but little. After 
glancing at the telegrams he sent the papers which he 
took in over to the clergyman, who, by the way, was the 
only person at all on their own level of social standing 
and education he had to associate with, and who dined 
with them every Sunday. The magazines, to many of 
which Klaus subscribed, generally remained uncut. The 
literature of the time was repulsive to him. He read 
Zola and Ibsen with all the curious interest of a man of 
German training, but they gave him no pleasure, quite 
the reverse. 

Like most people who have no future before them, he 
turned with preference to the past and plunged more 
and more deeply into the noble creations of the poets 
who had been the enthusiasm of his youth, from heroic 


BROKEN WINGS. 


155 


Homer and the other classics down to the later Roman- 
tic school, whose poets, now quite out of fashion, and 
which when asked for at a book store are quite likely 
to be handed you in copies all yellow and with a smell 
of mildew, and to fall to pieces when you begin to handle 
the leaves. And these “Romantics” he had a special 
fancy for — beginning with Eicliendorf and going as far 
as Strachwitz. And whenever his soul came into too 
sharp and wounding collision with reality he regained 
his equanimity by the help cf some of these delightful 
old lyrics. 

He was one of those who stick to the belief that the 
splendid visions of the poets are founded in truths deeper 
than the petty minute observations of the so-called real- 
ists^ although these are truths which only the heart can 
prove to be such and the understanding cannot. And, 
indeed, he began to look down with hearty and sovereign 
contempt upon that pitiful, silly-wise, boastful human 
understanding altogether, and, with the same feeling, 
upon every form of man’s self-seeking ambition. He 
despised the world, as most people are apt to do who are 
shut out from it, and so often said “all is vanity” that 
at last he caqie firmly to believe it. Thus he who had 
had to \Vage many a hard battle with his discontent at 
last conquered it altogether, becoming, as he believed, 
quite reconciled to his destiny and freed from all con- 
flicts within. Over the restless current of his life there 
had now formed itself a thin crust of ice, so that the 
stress of the stream still flowing below was a thing which 
he had quite ceased to take into account, or believe in. 

Then— there came a light, warm breathing, as of spring, 
along the surface of that ice, and* the strongly flowing 
waters below felt that warmth pierce through the cover- 
ing of ice. And there was danger ; but he saw and felt 
it not. 


If children had been granted him, Klaus would per- 
haps not have succeeded with all his efforts in setting 


156 


BROKEN WINGS. 


up so firm a barrier of determination against any further 
active development of his life. But that blessing was 
denied them. And perhaps for this reason he clung all 
the more closely to the little being whose protection had 
been assigned to him by fate. In that earliest and heavi- 
est time of his married life it had always been a tran- 
quilizing and healing thing to him when the little one 
sprang to his knees, and, clasping his neck with her soft 
little arms, pressed her little head against his cheek. And 
as she grew bigger and bigger she came to be the one 
creature with whom it was true delight to him to pass 
the time with, the one decided charm of his home, the 
one source of joy to him when he returned to his home 
after he had tired himself out with his, often too slow, 
pupils, or refreshed himself by a stout struggle, in his 
boat, with the wind and the waves. 

And as for the child, she simply worshiped him. 
When he returned after one of these excursions, his 
color heightened by the wind, a joyous light in his blue 
eyes, and with the keen, fresh odor of the sea breeze in 
his blonde hair, he seemed to her the very embodimenkof 
manly beauty and chivalry. She saw him and him only in 
all the heroic forms of legend, history and poetry. There 
was no great deed she read of which she did not think 
him capable of, from the campaigns of Alexander to the 
heroic death of Max Piccolomini. If anybody had been 
there to hear her when she gave utterance to these ex- 
cessive thoughts and views about him they might have 
given him no little perplexity. But there was never any 
one there to smile at her exaggerations and at him ; no 
one to draw slighting comparisons between what she 
took him for and what he was ; so these wild exaggera- 
tions gave him no discomfort, indeed, did him good, and 
gave him a pleasure which he scarcely realized. It be- 
came a habit with him to expect this innocent, loving 
incense from her, and he took it as some compensation 
for that confirmation by others of his personal merit, the 
striving for which lies at the foundation of every true 
man’s ambition, but which he had to renounce the idea 
of obtaining in those quarters which decide such things. 


BKOKEN WINGS. 


157 


That Litzie’s innocent and affecting overestimate of him- 
self went no further in turning his head need scarcely be 
said; but it was fine and soothing to see so exalted a 
reflection of himself in the mirror of this pure young 
soul. 

As she grew bigger and bigger the subject of having a 
governess in the house to superintend her education was 
frequently discussed. And, after dealing with the ques- 
tion from every point of view and postponing a decision 
again and again, the idea was given up. The reason they 
gave themselves and others was that no teacher besides 
themselves was necessary for Litzie, the real truth being 
that the presence of a strange teacher would have un- 
pleasantly affected their domestic life, disturbing the 
even tenor of their uniform and half dreamy exist- 
ence.' And what need was there really of a teacher? 
The schoolmaster of the village instructed her in the 
elements of general knowledge ; French and the piano 
she learned with Nina. As to French, the little one ab- 
sorbed that almost unconsciously, and at fourteen years 
of age she had quite caught up with her mother on the 
piano. As to all the rest, that was undertaken by Klaus 
himself, that is to say, he it was who gave impulse and 
direction in the formation of her young mind and pro- 
moted its growth. He made it his habit to converse 
with her on all sorts of clever things, gave her the bool^s 
which she might read through for herself and read ex- 
tracts from such as she was not yet mature enough for. 
And it was to him that she brought all her little thoughts 
and reasonings and views about men and things, the past 
and the future. And, heavens ! how raw it all was, how 
topsy-turvy, and also how living in its youthful fresh- 
ness, how original and pathetic ! He often took her out 
for a sail, and at other times for long walks. Nina ac- 
companied them neither on the water nor on the land ; 
she could not stand the sea, and anything like a long 
walk was burdensome to her. Perhaps, also, she felt 
that when those two were together she was superfluous. 
The sailing was delightful, especially in a good stiff 
breeze; but the walks were still more delightful, espe- 


158 


BROKEN WINGS. 


cially in the cool evenings of late summer when the 
moon was at her full. And that walk, above all, over 
the wild marshland to the beech forest that lay some- 
what more than a mile behind Elmstadt, how beautiful 
that was, how very beautiful ! 

There was the moon shining down in her fullness, 
large, white, out of the black-blue sky upon the gray- 
green marshland ; and, defining the horizon on one side, 
the windmill, casting its black shadow; and, on the 
other, the beech-trees, shimmering white, and the night 
air filled with odors of wild thyme and the damp of 
earth. 

Litzie could not keep step with Klaus, but she tripped 
by his side like an indefatigable little jjpinter or retriever. 
And, in that company, she could have gone on foot from 
Elmstadt to Hamburg without a trace of fatigue. He 
told her of all the foreign parts and foreign peoples he 
had seen on his voyages when young. Sometimes — he 
could never forget his Romantic school — he declaimed 
to her some piece from one of his favorite poets, if dec- 
lamation that can be called that was so little forced, 
so simple, so interior. And, now and again, he would 
pause, some line having slipped his memory, and try to 
recall it. 

Whenever he wanted to give her special pleasure he 
complied with her entreaty to take her into the heart of 
tire wood. She had an almost morbidly active imagina- 
tion, and was full of courage in the day time, but very 
timid after nightfall. The moonlight, as it fell upon the 
dry leaves on the ground and on the white stems of the 
beeches, made all sorts of ghostly forms in the darkling 
forest ; her breath would come short, her heart beat— but it 
was so delightful to have that fear when under his protect- 
ing charge, and when nothing could happen to her. Some- 
times she was so dreadfully frightened that she gave a 
loud cry, and then he would smile and tap her shoulder 
or stroke her hair. And, the moment his hand touched 
her, all her alarm fled and was replaced by an indescrib- 
able sense of comfort and well-being. And soon they 
emerged from the darkling forest and its ghostly sport- 


BROKEN WINGS. 


159 


ings with the light, its restless nodding and whispering 
branches, and were once again in the wide, quiet marsh 
country. 

And every time this happened Litzie had an almost 
solemn feeling of having some burden taken from her, 
and breathed more freely. And then they would turn 
and make for Elmstadt and their home. 

And as they returned thither both always preserved 
silence. The moon was higher in the sky, her light fell 
stronger on the heath which now began to dampen with 
the dew and shimmer as with silver. Around them all 
was still ; not a sound except that of the grass trodden 
by their feet, and from afar, at first very low and rising 
higher and higher, as they approached, the great voice 
of the sea. 

And, from that sea and that voice there came always, 
always, to Klaus some message which he could not divine 
the meaning of, whether it was a call to come or a warn- 
ing to keep away. 

The little one, when she had got back, always before leav- 
ing him for her night’s rest, placed her soft hands upon his 
shoulders, reached up to him on tiptoe, and bent her head 
back to be kissed. And he kissed her every time with 
the same fond, innocent kiss he had given to the plump 
stammering baby, stroked her cheeks and her soft, sweet- 
smelling brown hair. 

“Good-night, my little wild thing, good-night, little 
comrade!” he would say, fondly. “Mind you sleep 
well.” 

“Oh, that’s fully provided for,” she laughed. “Many, 
many more thanks for the delightful walk, papa; it was 
lovely, oh, so lovely, papa, and to-morrow we’ll go again, 
won’t we?” 

“Yes, little woman.” He had caught from Nina the 
Austrian trick of calling her so. “But now, go to bed.” 

Nina usually lay down on the sofa for an hour or so 
before this, but always rose to put Litzie to bed ; and 
when she came back to Klaus from the child’s room she 
often had quite a sad expression. 

“The little one’s feelings are finely strung,” said she, 


160 


BROKEN WINGS. 


on one such occasion. “I often feel a little hurt that she 
so much prefers you to me. But I can’t blame you for 
it, she is only too much in the right.’* 

She said no more, and the subject did not dwell long 
in her thoughts. A little jealous of him she was as she 
had been of her mother, but with less bitterness. She 
was so grateful for all he had done for her that she re- 
joiced in his having the best of everything even this 
affection of her child for him, so strong that it almost 
neutralized affection for herself. Litzie had, of course, 
no idea that Klaus was not actually her father. And 
Nina regarded her child’s preference as a sort of tax laid 
by Providence on her destiny in return for the unex- 
pected happiness with which it had been invested in 
these new relations. The pressure of the tax was felt 
certainly ; but it was a light burden under the circum- 
stances. 


Fifteen years had elapsed since her marriage with 
Klaus. And the misfortunes foretold by her mother had 
failed to appear. The lives of both kept the pleasant, 
even tenor of their way. It was a gray, half-awake, twi- 
light life; and, in the midst of it, Litzie’s fresh young 
being danced and shone like a sunbeam slipping into a 
room through some opening in drawn curtains. In Aus- 
tria, on the other hand, there had been all sorts of change. 
The severity with which Nina’s brothers and sister had 
viewed their sister’s lapse had diminished with the course 
of years. Her marriage with Olden had naturally raised 
in their minds none of the distressing scruples felt by 
their mother; was regarded, rather, as a simple Provi- 
dential mercy. And this was felt most strongly by the 
two brothers. Any brother-in-law with a decently re- 
spectable position would have been welcome to them 
under the circumstances. All that their mother told 
them about Klaus Olden prepossessed them, of course, 


BROKEN WINGS. 


161 


strongly in his favor, in spite of his being a North Ger- 
man, of which type of man they, as full-blooded Austri- 
ans, had, of course, a holy horror. In consideration of 
the other fine qualities which were reported of him, they 
were willing to overlook such points as his pronouncing 
some combinations of letters hard instead of soft, his 
using the imperfect tense correctly instead of incorrect- 
ly, his waltzing badly, his feeding, principally, on messes 
abhorrent to the Austrian soul ; all which things were, 
no doubt, attributable to him as to other Northerners. 

They were not averse to holding personal intercourse 
with him and Nina, but no opportunity for it occurred 
for a considerable time. Then ensued a complete revo- 
lution in the circumstances of Nina’s younger sister. Her 
husband came into his uncle’s considerable property, re- 
tired, in consequence, from the army, and went to reside 
upon his estates, in Steiermark. This was situate in a 
charming district, and the estate had a name with a 
legendary sound. It was known as Unkenstein, and the 
principal residence was a cheerful and spacious mansion. 
And as Kaden had a quite respectable income other than 
the Tental of this estate, he was in a position to enjoy it 
fully irrespective of its rent-roll. 

Accordingly, Nina received, early in May, 1892, a let- 
ter from her sister inviting her warmly to come to Un- 
kenstein with her husband and child. “In July the 
brothers will be quite free,” she wrote; “we can house 
you all comfortably at the same time. It will be a regu- 
lar family festival, and we will have a famous time. 
How very much I long to know your husband. For fif- 
teen years we have been laughing at mamma’s enthu-. 
siasm for her North German son-in-law — he will find it 
difficult to come up to our expectations. Pray send me 
a good North German cookery book, that my cook may 
get her hand in with all sorts of Northern delicacies. I 
don’t want him to miss anything when with us. The 
brothers send you and yours every possible kind of hearty 
greeting; they are just as happy about you as the mother 
and I. She is quite as bustling as a young girl, in spite 
of her seventy years, and just spends her time in going 


162 


BROKEN WINGS r. * 


about from one of us to another ; whenever one of us 
wants a guardian angel she is clamored for directly. 

“Pray write and tell us when you come, for that you 
come I take for granted. Everything will be ready for 
you by the first of July. With dearest love, your old 
Rosie.” 

So the letter ended. And there was a postscript— 

“We could have you earlier, but then you would have 
to put up with worse rooms; those we intend for you 
are just about to be painted. We reckon on you for a 
long visit, of course. Is your husband much of a sports- 
man?” 

It was late in the evening, about eight o’clock, when 
Nina received this letter. The shadows were long and 
pale, the sun was thickly surrounded by clouds suffused 
by its fires, and all the western horizon was one vast con- 
flagration of sunset and sea. It was the finest part of the 
day, all earth seemed to breathe with relief as the night 
came on. Nina read the letter as some prisoner might 
who after many years receives the papers restoring him 
to liberty. It was only now, when her sister’s dear 
voice summoned her back to her home, that she realized 
liow great had been her loss all along in the midst of her 
new happiness, if it could, indeed, be called happiness. 
Strong tears came into her eyes, and her first feelings 
’of gratitude went out to him to whom she owed this 
restoration. She folded the letter, rose, and, contrary to 
her custom, went upstairs to her husband’s room. He 
was just then busy in testing some electrical apparatus 
which he used in connection with a course of lectures on 
physics at his school of navigation. 

There was something wrong about it. Nina went up 
to him and put her hand on his arm. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


163 


“You here?. Do you want anything, my dear child?” 
he asked, with the sweet kindliness he invariably showed 
her. 

“Excuse me for interrupting you,” she replied, “but I 
have just had a great delight, and as I owe to you all that 
is good in my life, either directly or indirectly, I could 
not help coming to tell you all about it.” 

She bent down to his hand and drew it to her lips ; it 
was the caress she generally gave him. In the early days 
this humility of his wife’s tenderness had first made him 
ashamed and then impatient, now he scarcely noticed it 
and took it as it came, as he did nearly everything in 
their relations to each other. 

“Old woman, ” he said, and tapped her good-humoredly 
on the shoulder, “what has given you such particular 
pleasure that you've had to cry your eyes red over it?” 

“There; read the letter,” said Nina. 

He did not at first seem at all desirous of giving him- 
self the trouble of reading the rather long manuscript, 
and looked as though he would rather have been told 
about it all. But as she seemed much to wish it he read 
the letter. When he had finished he returnefHt to her 
with a kindly smile and pressed her hand silently. He 
was too sensitive to express himself more clearly, indeed 
all his feelings were more subtle and discriminating than 
hers. 

She drew his hand to her lips again, and said, in a low 
voice : 

“Dear Klaus, can you make up your mind to it? Pray, 
pray— -would you like to go with us to Austria?” 

Klaus took hold slowly of the back of his neck with 
one hand, a movement peculiar to him, and said, some- 
what uneasily: 


164 


BROKEN WINGS. 


“I think — ” he began. 

“Well, what do you think?” she asked. 

“_Z think your brothers and sister have taken rather 
long to think it over.” 

“But, Klaus,” said Nina, shyly, stroking his hand 
which she held in hers, “I ought not to take that amiss 
under the circumstances.” 

He shivered slightly and reddened to the very eyes. It 
was now fifteen years that they had been married — near- 
ly sixteen since she made her sad confession to him — and 
in all these long years he had never alluded to the matter 
with a single word. Nina had come to think that it had 
long ceased to disturb him, and it pained her to see how 
sensitive he was still about it. 

He cleared his throat, and, with a little frown, mur- 
mured hoarsely : 

“We’ve done with all that, long ago— it concerns not 
a soul now,” and then he drew Nina to him and kissed 
her on the forehead. Compassion for her had so long 
been the leading feature of his regard for her that, the 
moment there seemed any call upon it, his arm was 
thrown round her for her protection directly. 

His goodness drew tears from her and her head rested 
for a moment on his breast; then, as though she feared 
she might be burdensome to him, she stood upright and, 
putting her hand softly on his arm, whispered : 

“But you will come, won’t you? They will all be so 
delighted with you, and you will be quite happy with 
them.” 

The frown had not left his brow quite. 

“They are strangers to me. I think I’d best keep apart, ” 
he murmured. “Of course, I shall make no difficulty 
about your coming together with your family; go to 


BROKEN WINGS. 


105 


Austria when you please ; but as for me, I think I had 
better be left out.” 

Her tears came fast. ' ‘Klaus, without you — Oh ! how 
could I show myself at home without you? There would 
be nothing in that at all, nothing!” She dried her eyes 
with her handkerchief. “I will never try to make you 
do anything you do not like, and shall at once comply 
with whatever you decide, without a word ; that is my 
course.” • 

With these words she turned to the door ; he hurried 
after her. It seemed to him a hateful and ugly thing 
that he had not shown more sympathy in her happiness. 

“Nina!” he cried, drawing her back softly. “Old 
woman, have I spoiled your pleasure for you? I’ve 
been quite selfish and grumpy. ’ * 

‘‘Selfish! You!” And her beautiful eyes gazed at 
him with a look of rapture. “You!” and then there 
came to her lips the word which her heart was always 
uttering about him — “You, my savior !” 

“Nina, Nina! Haven’t you got over that intensity of 
yours yet?” he reproved her, good-humoredly, stroking 
her hand. 

“Oh, yes, my intensity long, long ago,” said she, 
gravely; “but my gratitude it is to be hoped I never 
shall get over !” 

His eyes moistened. 

“And you wish so much, do you, that I should go with 
you to Austria?” he said. 

“What I wish, above everything, is that you should 
not do anything to give you pain,” she replied. “The 
sacrifices I have caused you have been enough already, 
God knows.” 

“Why, old woman” — he drew her to him and kissed 


166 


BROKEN WINGS. 


her — “of course I will go with you to Austria; it was 
only that at the first blush I felt uncomfortable at the 
idea of shaking myself up. We have had such a nice 
sweet life of it here ; and when any one does the same 
thing, year in and year out, as I’ve oeen doing — allow- 
ing only for the difference of the seasons — why, of course 
he kicks against anything that interferes with his every- 
day habits. It’s just like a long-caged bird ; if you open 
the cage he doesn’t want to get out of it.” 

“Yes, Klaus, you are right,” she confessed sadly. “I 
feel something like that, too, and much as I have longed 
for my home, and greatly as I rejoice that it is opened 
for me once again, I am glad for all that not to have to 
take the train and start to-morrow. And, when the time 
does come, it will be a wrench to us to have to go ; but I 
think that, from every point of view, it would be well 
for us not to refuse this opportunity of putting ourselves 
on a right footing with my family.” 

“I think so now myself.” 

“I have every reason to be proud of my people,” she 
continued. “Mother, brothers, sister, brother-in-law — 
all of them are th£ best of creatures, capable *and un- 
blemished. I am the only one in the family against 
whom a word can be said. And they are all in a very 
good position. Quite apart from the delight it will be 
to me to be with those I love, this reconciliation is the 
first step to the formation of normal relations with the 
world, for Litzie. Her future is concerned.” 

“Litzie’s future?” He lifted his eyebrows. “What 
has Litzie’s future to do with it?” 

“She’ll never find a husband at Elmstadt; and I can’t 
imagine Litzie as an old maid.” 

‘ ‘An old maid— Litzie ! ’ ’ And his mouth twitched with 


BROKEN WINGS. 


167 


a humorous smile. “Nor I, indeed,” he confessed, “but 
that’s a good way off still. There’s no use in plaguing 
the poor baby about marriage yet. Just now Litzie thinks 
about_as much about marrying as she does about dying.” 

“That’s true, Klaus; but we must think about it for 
her.” 

“Certainly, old woman; there’s nothing like taking 
time by the forelock.” 

“Litzie will be eighteen next May.” 

“Eighteen! The little rascal — eighteen! How time 
flies!” he murmured. He had' thrust his hands in the 
pockets of his short house-coat, and was looking thought- 
fully before him, with his head down and his feet some- 
what apart, as is the way with seamen. “Eighteen years 
old I” he suddenly repeated, lifting his head. “We shall 
have some trouble in getting her married.” 

“Yes,” said Nina, with downcast eyes, “the circum- 
stances will make it so.” 

“The circumstances have nothing to do with it at all,” 
he cried warmly. ‘ 'She will be difficult to marry because 
it will be difficult to find a husband good enough for her. 
I don’t mean to let our little savage go to the first comer. 
Funny little oddity !” And his face did not lose its seri- 
ous expression. 

She lifted her eyes up to him silently and fondly, and 
then said to him, in low tones : 

“I have much to be grateful to you for, Klaus, but 
there is nothing I have to be so grateful to you from my 
heart’s depths as the kindness you have always shown 
my poor child. If she were your own flesh and blood 
you could not be fonder of her.” 

“I think so myself,” he said, and then added, with a 


168 


BROKEN WINGS. 


smile: “It’s such a meritorious thing, you know, to be 
fond of the little rogue.” 

“Certainly she does something to requite your good- 
ness by the most enthusiastic devotion,” continued Nina ; 
and, stroking his cheek lightly, she went on: “For her 
there could he nothing in heaven or earth she could 
think better, more chivalrous, cleverer or handsomer 
than ‘papa.’ ” 

“Poor little soul! She has never shown her pretty 
little nose anywhere out of Elmstadt ; she has no oppor- 
tunity of making comparisons. As soon as she goes 
among people she’ll soon get out of those exaggera- 
tions. That will be one of the successes of our Austrian 
journey.” 

He sighed involuntarily. 

“Well, then, you have quite decided on the journey?” 

“Yes — ye-es, ye-es!” he repeated thrice with humor- 
ous emphasis. 

“And the sacrifice will not be too great for you?” 

“No.” 

“What a deal mother will have to say when she sees 
us. You are just the same, Klaus; you look exactly as 
you did in St. Valerie, where the mother, after our first 
acquaintance with you, could think of nothing to say 
except, ‘There’s a handsome fellow!’ while I — she’ll 
hardly recognize me— when I am by your side I might 
be taken for your mother. ’ ’ 

Her glance fell upon a mirror nearly opposite her, an 
old-fashioned mirror, in a frame of black wood with 
bronze rosettes at the angles, which had been hung there 
before the room was turned into a laboratory for Klaus 
Olden, and which it had occurred to nobody to remove. 
It was some time since she had taken a look at Klaus and 


BROKEN WINGS. 


169 


herself in that way, side by side ; and she was startled by 
the truth of what she had just said. The years had passed 
over him almost without a trace ; he was perhaps a little 
broader about the shoulders, perhaps his weight was a 
trifle more than it had been fifteen years before, but there 
was not enough in either point to attract remark. His 
eyes were, certainly, of not so deep a blue as they had 
been, and his cheeks were somewhat browner ; and that 
was the only difference. His features were just the 
same in their pure, noble outlines ; the firm, sensitive 
mouth was just what it had been ; the curly blonde hair 
was as luxurious as ever, nor was the first trace of silver 
to be seen in it. 

Nina’s hair, on the contrary, had grown quite gray. 
She was very stout. Her features were still beautiful, 
but her countenance had grown heavy, especially about 
the chin, and her skin had lost its freshness. 

“Oh, you’re never happy except when you are depre- 
ciating yourself,” reproved Klaus, good-humoredly. 
“You’re quite pretty still, old woman.” 

“Pretty for an old woman, perhaps. Besides, it’s no 
wonder that I look older than you— I am older.” 

“Oh, really! How much?” he said, jokingly; he 
had really forgotten all about it. 

“Three or four years.” 

“Really? Well, with such grave persons as you and 
I, such trifles don’t count.” 

“I was three-and-forty last February, and you are nine- 
and-tliirty,” she said, thoughtfully. 

“I shall be, on the fourteenth of June,” he said. 

“My day is over ; and the real truth is that it was over 
when you took me,” said Nina. “As for you, any young 


170 


BROKEN WINGS. 


girl might fall in love with you and be proud if you re- 
turned her love.” 

“Oh, what nonsense ! What have I to do with such 
ideas?” he laughed, merrily. “You needn’t fret about 
that, wifey.” 

“I don’t; certainly not for my own sake. Don’t I 
know that you will always be true as steel to duty and 
honor? But — I’m sorry for you, my poor dear Klaus l” 

It was a strange thing, she was always thinking so 
much about what he had given her ; every day since her 
marriage that had been in her thoughts ; but it was only 
this day that she seemed so deeply impressed with the 
thought of all that she had deprived him of ; this day 
when fate was offering her everything which she had so 
long secretly longed for; this day when for her there 
was nothing left to wish. 

“Oh, nonsense, nonsense I” said he, much moved, and 
in soothing tones. “I assure you that I feel just as happy 
as any man need, by your side. The fifteen years we 
have been together have nothing but dear and sweet 
memories for me. You are a little depressed just now ; 
it’s the reaction from your excessive joy. It’ll be all 
right after supper. And how about supper? I am feel- 
ing quite hungry.” 

“I fancy it must be quite ready now. I told them to 
lay it in the garden, the night is so lovely.” 

“Come, then.” He offered her his arm, lovingly, and 
took her downstairs. 

The gray house in which the Oldens lived was sur- 
rounded by the garden ; but at the front, looking sea- 
ward, there was only a small strip of it ; but, behind the 
house, it stretched for some distance. The table was 
at the rear of the house; and it was already set. A 


BROKEN WINGS. 


171 


housemaid was putting something to rights at it — a very- 
pretty housemaid, with arms bare nearly to the shoulder, 
which arms were decidedly fine, though a little red, and 
who had on a tiny cap which looked almost like a small 
wreath of tulle, so little and light it was; one could 
hardly see how such a thing could be kept on her head. 

The table, with its three covers, was of inviting, sweet- 
smelling cleanliness ; nay more, it seemed to breathe 
with the sweetest old-fashioned poetry. In the center, 
between the three covers, stood a low vase filled with 
white and blue anemones. Ham, sausage, Holstein 
cheese, honey, white and black bread, and, above all, 
Olden’s favorite dish, sour cream with pulled bread, 
were there in profusion. The old-fashioned English 
china service was painted with broad, dark blue ara- 
besques, and the silver spoons and forks had come to 
Klaus from his parents ; their massiveness showed that 
those who had had them made needed not to economize 
in the metal. 

“How pretty and comfortable all that is !” said Olden, 
smiling with pleasure, and, looking a little defiantly at 
Nina, he said : “Do you do things better in Austria?” 

“I have never ‘done things,’ as you put it, better in my 
life anywhere; and not anything like so well,” replied 
Nina, in a heartfelt way ; she was a little tired. 

“Where is the little one, Meta?” she asked the house- 
maid. 

“Miss Litzie went out to the churchyard.” 

“Will you fetch her, Klaus, or shall I send Meta?” 
asked Nina. 

“I will fetch her,” cried Klaus, readily. He stepped 
along the yellow gravel walk, whose sharp color was 
slightly mellowed by the twilight, and went out of the 


172 


BROKEN WINGS. 


garden on to the road. Right opposite lay the church- 
yard. Over the very low walls was visible the array of 
black crosses and white gravestones all about the church, 
and, against the background, the red-brick schoolhouse 
with its big small-paned windows. 

The flowers in Holstein are not thickly in bloom in 
early May, but the transparent yellow of the laburnum 
was already shimmering through the half-opened blue 
flowers of the lilac, all as yet scanty and transparent. 
About the crosses there was the perfume of brown-red 
wall-flowers ; about some of the graves there were with- 
ered garlands or wreaths of fresh primulas. The luke- 
warm air was stirred from time to time by the sort of 
light shiver so often felt in the evenings of spring, a 
breath of cold which seemed to strike up from the soil 
not yet warmed through by the summer. The smell of 
the damp earth was plainly perceptible, mingling with 
the perfume of the blooms. 

By a grave, at the head of which there was a big white 
gravestone, there knelt a slender young girl with luxu- 
rious brown hair which hung over her shoulder and far 
below her waist in a thick plait. She was busily occu- 
pied in smoothing the ground all round it with a little 
spade, and had, probably, sown it with flower seeds. 

“Litzie! Little woman !” cried Klaus. 

She turned to him and smiled. For the first time he 
realized that she was by this time a grown-up girl, and, 
at the same time, he said to himself that the man whose 
lot it might be to have the right of folding her to his 
heart would be a very enviable mortal. Never had he 
seen anything in his life more charming than the ten- 
derly roguish, big, clear gray eyes with their dark lashes, 
that looked at him out of the pale, round little face. And, 


BROKEN WINGS. 


173 


then, the soft and yet defiant expression in the full under 
lip ; the subtly fine outline of the little nose. To think 
that one had to bring up a creature to be as big as that 
only for somebody else to take to his heart and carry off ! 
Well, there was no help for it; it was the way of the 
world. 

“Little woman, come. It is quite time, supper is on 
the table. What makes you so late here again?” 

“Late?” she replied, in her soft, deep voice, like that 
of some forest song-bird. “Why, that’s exactly what I 
was working for so late, that you might come and fetch 
me. You always come after me when I remain out too 
long; but I must say I’ve had to wait a terribly long 
time for you to-day.” 

She spoke very correct German ; but there was some- 
thing in her pronunciation peculiar, foreign, and this 
peculiarity seemed to cling to her whole person and 
being. 

“It’s well I know that,” he said, and remained stand- 
ing near her. 

“That you know what!" said she, without rising from 
her kneeling position, and looking up at him over her 
shoulder. 

“What your purpose was in remaining out so long, 
my little wild thing, ’ ’ which was his pet name for her. 

“And what will you do about it?” she asked him, de- 
fiantly. 

“I’ll teach you to leave off running about so long, ” 
said he. “I shall take measures for your finding your 
way back home all by yourself.” 

“You don’t say so !” she laughed, a low, soft laugh, as 
though she was afraid of disturbing the peace of the 
graves. “We’ll just see who has the more patience, 


174 


BROKEN WINGS. 


you or I. If I have to stay out quite, quite late, I won’t 
come in till you call me.” 

“Silly little thing !” 

“If it’s silly to be fond of you, then I am silly, very 
silly, papa.” 

He smiled, much affected. And, although he had 
scolded her unpunctuality so severely, he did not seem 
at all ready to turn and go back with her at once. 

“What have you been so busy about here?” 

“I’ve been sowing reseda and lilies round the cross and 
all about the stone. I say, papa, why do they put such 
big, heavy stones on the graves? Is it because they are 
afraid that the dead people might want to get out and 
go about again?” 

“Oh! don’t conjure up such frightful pictures,” he 
said, and shook himself. 

“The thought just came into my head,” she went on. 
“There were Aunt Rosalie and Uncle Paul, now. And 
they were fonder of each other than anything else pn 
this earth, they would hardly want«to come back to life 
again, now they’re together there. How much time was 
there between uncle’s death and aunt’s?” 

“Six months; but what makes you ask about all 
this?” 

“Why, only because it struck me j;o-day for the first 
time how beautiful are the words that are on the cross 
there.” She pointed to the cross that stood at the head 
of one of the graves, and read with a somewhat raised 
voice and in a solemn, childlike way : 

“ ‘Be not afraid, for I have redeemed thee. I have 
called thee by the name that is thine ; thou art mine 
own.’ 


BROKEN WINGS. 


175 


“Papa, I’m quite certain that if you were to die before 
me and call me by my name, I am quite, quite certain 
that I should hear you over the abyss which separates us 
poor human creatures from eternity, and I should find 
my way to you. ’ ’ 

“My little wild thing! My darling!” he murmured. 
“But we’ll take a little time to think it all over before 
we make up our minds to die, both of us; but, now, 
come.” He stretched out both hands to her to lift her 
up. She sprang up as lightly as a fawn and left the 
churchyard with him. 

“Here you are, at last!” Nina cried, and they seated 
themselves at table. “Have you told her all about the 
news we’ve had?” 

“What news?” he asked, helping Litzie to some sour 
cream. Litzie shared all her papa’s preferences at the 
table, particularly as to sour cream and pulled bread, 
because they were his preferences, that was a matter of 
course. Both of them began to devour their portions of 
this delectable dish with the greatest appetite, while Nina 
looked on with a slight shiver of objection. She was an 
Austrian, remember, and this was a North German deli- 
cacy. 

“Oh, yes ! I had forgotten,” said he, “we are all three 
going to Austria.” 

‘ ‘Aunt Rosie has invited us to visit her at her beautiful 
place in Steiermark,” said'poor Nina, to whom the matter 
was infinitely more important. 

“Oh ! are we going to Steiermark?” cried Litzie. She 
knew the faces, at least, of all her relatives, from their 
portraits. “Oh, that’s splendid! There are mountains 
and waterfalls there. And when are we going?” 

“We’ie going just as soon as we can get used to the 


176 


BROKEN WINGS. 


thought that we’ve got to pack up and start,” said Klaus, 
joking; “and that will take some time.” 

“If papa will consent we shall go in July,” said Nina. 
“You must try and persuade him.” 

‘ ‘Papa. ’ ’ Litzie looked at him coaxingly and folded 
her hands in supplication. 

He laughed. “Oh, we mustn’t be in a hurry; there’s 
a deal to think about. And, as we had better begin prac- 
ticing in the matter of travel at once, I think we had 
better make a little excursion to Hamburg as soon as 
possible. "What do you say to it, little woman?” 

“Oh, papa!” cried Litzie, beaming with joy. 

“And I think,” he went on, turning to Nina, “that 
you’ll have to make some purchases for this visit. You 
Austrian ladies are famous for your taste in dress, and I 
don’t want my two ladies to be behindhand in that grave 
matter. We’ll see if we can’t transfer my little darling 
wild flower here into a highly cultivated rose. But I 
much doubt whether she’ll please me better in that 
guise,” he added, in a melancholy tone, taking hold of 
the little one caressingly by the back of the neck and 
pulling her thick plaits gently. 

Supper was over. Nina had cleared the table and 
placed cigarettes and matches before Klaus; but he 
didn’t seem inclined to smoke and went on playing 
with Litzie’s plaits. 

“Papa,” she said, coaxingly, and bringing her chair 
nearer to his, “if something very nice is played while 
we’re stopping in Hamburg, you’ll take us to the theater, 
won’t you?” 

“Certainly, little one. And won’t the people make big 
eyes when I show myself with such a pretty daughter 
there!” he cried. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


177 


Nina coughed slightly. “Klaus!” said she, in a tone 
of reproof. 

He laughed. “Mamma thinks that I spoil you too 
much, Litzie,” said he. “Don’t grudge me that pleas- 
ure, Nina. How long shall I have the chance of spoiling 
her — to-morrow, or the day after to-morrow, some one 
else will undertake that job.” 

“Who? What do you mean by somebody else?” asked 
Litzie, in astonishment. 

“Why, the scamp who will marry you,” he said; and 
there was something acid in his voice. He could not 
have told why and how it was that he had been led to 
say this, and his temper seemed ruffled. 

“Marry me!” said Litzie, with eyes opened very 
wide. 

‘ ‘Yes, exactly that person ! ” he said, teasingly. ‘ ‘Why, 
we’re going to Austria to hunt him up — well, perhaps, 
not exactly to hunt him up, but, to find him, anyhow.” 

Nina looked at him uneasily. He was unlike himself ; 
hollow jesting of that sort was something quite foreign 
to his serious and affectionate disposition. 

“The idea of the journey puts him out, that’s clear,” 
she said to herself. Litzie leaned her head on her hand 
with a mutinous expression. 

“It’s well you’ve let that out ; and, now I know it, you 
won’t catch me going with you to Austria,” she ex- 
claimed. “I won’t marry an Austrian; certainly not; 
on no account !” 

“Why not, I should like to know?” asked Nina, whose 
patriotism was roused. 

“Why? Because papa — because you two certainly 
would not go and settle in Austria ; .and I, well, if I 
ever do marry, I want to be as near you as possible. Oh ! 


178 


BROKEN WINGS. 


I’ve thought it over for a long while, and quite made 
up my mind. ’ ’ 

“Really and truly!” cried Klaus, “you’ve been set- 
tling all about your marriage for a long while? I never 
should have thought it of you. Oh ! these children, 
these children ! Who is to tell what they are thinking 
of?” 

His voice was colder than usual. Litzie was sensible 
of it and thought he meant to scold her. 

“Thought fit over,” she repeated, in some perplexity, 
"thought it over! Papa, I only meant nowand then, 
you know, when you’ve read me some poem or some 
story % w here two people were fond of each other, and 
then — then, I couldn’t help saying to myself that — that 
it must be a very fine thing that, and — and asking myself 
whether any one could possibly ever be so fond of me 
that — that ; but it was only just as some one might try 
to think what Paradise was like, something very, very, 
very far off.” 

“Still, it was Paradise, when you thought of it!” he 
murmured. 

“Oh ! don’t look at me so gloomily, papa,” she said, in 
tender anxiety, putting her arm round his neck. “Un- 
less I find some one who is very, very like you I won't 
have him. And, indeed, indeed, the truth of the matter 
is” — the large tears stood in her eyes — “I can’t imagine 
any life for myself in which you didn’t play the first 
part. No, no! I never will marry — never, never!” 
She was on her knees before him, flung both arms 
round him and pressed her little head to his breast. 
He lifted her up to his knees, whispering to her all sorts 
of little pet names in North German dialect, which he 
always fell into when more than usually moved. And 


BROKEN WINGS. 


179 


Nina smiled with tender satisfaction that the two creat- 
ures nearest to her heart were so attached to each other, 
and fell to meditating upon Litzie’s wardrobe, and 
whether she had a dress that would do for Hamburg. 


It was fully a week before Klaus’s projected excursion 
to Hamburg took place. Nina spent it chiefly in prepara- 
tions for Litzie’s toilet, and was mightily afraid that she 
was altogether too far behind the times for the girl, in 
that important respect, in spite of her conscientiously 
steady subscription to the Journal of Fashion. As to her 
own personal adornment, she had long since ceased to 
give it a thought ; she,^the once so vain Nina Jewitsch. 

From the day when her pride was broken down and 
her life broken by her great misfortune, she had taken 
very little interest in her own person. But the child ! 
Nina was quite excited and annoyed by the possibility 
that there might be something out of the way, unfash- 
ionable, in the child for the Hamburg people to notice 
and make fun of. 

“I should be desperate,” said she to Klaus, in her most 
decided Austrian manner and tones, “if the people turned 
round to look at her in the street.” 

“As to that you may rest assured; the people are cer- 
tain to turn round and look at her,” he said, laughing, 
and slightly mimicking her Austrian accent. “But that 
won’t be because of any little thing amiss or out of date 
in her dress, but because the good Hamburgers never in 
all their lives saw anything prettier than our little wild 


180 


BROKEN WINGS. 


thing. But I’m of your mind that we’d better keep that 
to ourselves, for there she is. — Little woman ! what have 
you got to say to this?” he called out to the yourg creat- 
ure. “Mamma objects to taking you with her to Ham- 
burg ; she thinks you haven’t any dress good enough for 
it, and she is afraid the people will take you for a scare- 
crow.” And then, taking Litzie’s drolly perplexed little 
face between the thumb and forefinger of his big hand, 
pinching it a bit, and turning to Nina: “I really don’t 
know what you’re worrying about; the little one can’t 
look better than she does at this moment.” 

And, indeed, Nina could not help asking herself 
whether anything could possibly become the child more 
sweetly than her little percale dress of dark blue, flowing 
so softly about the slender limbs, the blouse so simply 
fastened to her waist with a leather girdle, and her broad 
white sailor collar with its border of simple Holstein lace. 

“Well, I agree with you,” confessed Nina, after care- 
fully looking over the little figure. “She certainly pleases 
me best as she is. The only thing I am afraid of is that 
when you are in among all those tremendously made up 
Hamburg women you’ll have so much to criticise that 
we shan’t please you at all.” 

“Is that what you think, mamma?” said Litzie, sauci- 
ly. “I’m not afraid at all. If it should turn out that 
we are so much behind the made up Hamburgers, papa 
would be ever so sorry for us ; and, then, he’d be twice 
as fond of us as ever !” And she jumped up to him and 
gave him a kiss. 

“The little puss knows me better thanjyou do,” laughed 
Klaus. 

“That’s a question we won’t go into now,” said Nina, 
in heartfelt tones ; “but she certainly has not had all the 


BROKEN WINGS. 


181 


opportunity I have had to know and value you for what 
you are.” 

“Oh, I’ve been able to make a pretty shrewd guess 
about it,” cried Litzie, laughing triumphantly, and ran 
off to fetch a certain woolen petticoat which she had 
just finished knitting for an aged friend, a certain Mother 
Erickson, who suffered from rheumatism and was sub- 
ject to hallucinations. Little Litzie, with that warm 
heart of hers, loved and was beloved by every one in 
Elmstadt ; and she spoke the North German Frisian dia- 
lect so fluently that it made your head swim to hear her, 
though in her pronunciation there was something of that 
foreign element which pierced through everything she 
did or said. 

“Are you coming along, papa?” she asked, returning 
to the garden where this conversation had been held, in 
a few moments, with a big package under her arm and a 
big straw hat on her head. 

“Where?” asked Klaus, who was lying back in an 
easy-chair and reading the newspaper. 

“To Mother Erickson,” cried Litzie. 

“No; I beg of you to excuse me,” observed Klaus, 
with dry humor. “Mother Erickson persists in taking 
me for her son Will, who was drowned twenty years 
ago, and in stifling me with her embraces, as though I 
had just come back from all sorts of dangers and from 
the ends of the world. Deuce take it ! I’m fond enough 
of Mother Erickson in all conscience, but I don’t like 
exposing myself to her tenderness more than need be, 
to say nothing of the point that it is bad luck to be taken 
for a person that died by drowning. It means that you’re 
marked out for anything but a dry death.” 


182 


BROKEN WINGS. 


“Papa!” cried Litzie, horrified, clutching his arm in- 
voluntarily. 

“Why, little one ! I didn’t think you were so silly,” 
ho exclaimed. “You don’t really suppose that I care 
anything about such silly superstition? Trip over to 
Mother Erickson, and we’ll have a game of chess as soon 
as you return. Does that arrangement suit you?” 

She laughed at him out of her big, tender eyes, and 
vanished with her bundle. As she went along she sang, 
and Klaus hummed the melody after her. “Sweet little 
rogue!” he murmured to himself; and then, to Nina, 
who sat opposite him with some needlework in her hand : 
“Before I lgt any fellow take her from us I’ll look him 
well over, I promise you !” 

“What news in the paper?” asked Nina, looking up 
from her work. 

“Nothing very encouraging, ’ ’ said Klaus. ‘ ‘The Paris- 
ians are, of course, following the Russian fashions and 
have the cholera among them; in Russia it is raging 
everywhere. It is to be hoped it won’t find us out here. 
Hamburg is an admirable landing place for it.” 

“Why should it come?” said Nina, reassuringly. “It 
has been flitting about in Europe for years, but has never 
ventured to show itself in Germany. I don’t think it lias 
been in Hamburg since 1878.” 

“I am not quite sure,” said Klaus. “My sailors have 
told me some things about it that made me feel rather 
seriously. Everything, however, seems free enough 
from it this year, at least.” 

“Are you afraid of the cholera?” 

“Afraid?” he laughed. “Afraid? How can you ask 
a man such a question? What sort of a man would 
he be that would confess such dishonorable weakness? 


BROKEN WINGS. 


183 


Afraid! Well, in 1866— we lived in Kiel then — my 
father, an old man servant and a housemaid all died in 
the course of twenty-four hours ; a sad thing to look back 
to, indeed. However” — he stretched himself slightly and 
passed his hand over his eyes in a tired way — “in 1873, 
when we had cholera on board our ship, I never felt nerv- 
ous for myself when I attended our sick people. I had a 
good deal to do for them, and I cannot say that being 
with them, poor souls, was the most refreshing thing in 
the world. But, in this world, after all, one can’t con- 
sult one’s own feelings.” 

“Did many of them die?” asked Nina. 

“About fifteen or twenty of the crew, I don’t exactly 
remember how many,” replied Klaus; “they were sick 
nearly all of them, and took on board so much brandy, 
poor fellows, that it was not always easy to make out 
whether they had cholera or whether it was the liquor 
that was the matter with them. Then that was nothing 
to be surprised at. The fellows were all nearly beside 
themselves with fright, the same courageous sailors who 
•never blenched when we all but went down in a gale of 
wind. As far as we were concerned, I mean we officers 
and those who were expecting commissions, we drank 
our red wine, as usual, und were temperate in all respects 
and kept cool, and not a man of us was touched. There 
was only one who died, a middy, a dear, good boy with 
big stag’s eyes like Litzie. I nursed him till the last mo- 
ment. Br-r-r!” Klaus shook himself. “It’s all very 
well to boast of one’s pluck and heroism, but, I can tell 
you, cholera is not a pleasant thing at all !” 

“At home, in Austria, none of us were ever nervous,” 
said Nina. 

“Indeed! then you were mightily to be envied,” said 


184 


BROKEN WINGS. 


Klaus, dryly. “I confess without disguise that if the 
plague broke out here I should be in a terrible fright about 
the child. The thing does not so easily fasten itself on 
rational people of our age who are at all strong.” 

“Well, we are going to Steiermark for the summer,” 
said Nina. 

“Yes, that’s so, we are going to Steiermark,” Klaus re- 
peated, then he laid down the newspaper with a sigh and 
said: “I wonder what’s keeping the child. I’ll go and 
meet her a little way. ’ ’ 


“And what shall we do to-day?” asked Klaus, in high 
spirits, at the Hotel de l’Europe, in Hamburg, on the 
second day of their visit ; the first had passed pleasantly 
enough but without anything particular to mark it. In 
the first hours of their arrival there the noise and confu- 
sion of the big city had painfully affected Litzie’s nerves, 
so much so that she signalized her return with Nina to 
the hotel, after making a few purchases, by bursting into 
tears. But Klaus soon pacified her, in his fond, teasing 
way, and she quite recovered herself over the bottle of 
champagne which he ordered to enliven their little din- 
ner; and then she behaved in such a sweet, childlike, 
shy, lovable way that Klaus was more delighted with her 
than ever. In the evening they made an excursion to 
Blankenese and went pretty early to bed; and this next 
morning they had risen very early, according to their 
Elmstadt habit. Consequently they had the dining-room 
all to themselves. Klaus had opened one of the windows, 


BROKEN WINGS. 


185 


and Litzie leaned out and took her fill of the beauties of 
the Elster. The river gave her the highest delight. Her 
first agitation had drawn tears from her the day before, 
as we have seen ; now she took everything in with naive 
astonishment and curiosity. But her little face was all 
alive with excited feeling, and she became prettier and 
prettier every minute. 

“I have got everything that we want,” said Nina, “but 
the dress I’ve bought for Litzie wanted some little alter- 
ations. It did not sit quite right. It will be here at 
twelve. And, before that, I should much like to have 
the little one photographed.” 

“Would you? Well, and I should like to be there and 
see that she is taken in some pose that pleases me and not 
in one the photographer selects.” 

‘ ‘Shall I have her taken with the new style of dressing 
her hair or with the hanging plaits?” asked Nina. 

“Both suit her well, but the new city style best, I 
think ; she looks so like a grown up girl in it,” said Klaus 
joking. “Oh, really, I can’t recognize my little wild 
thing at all ; she has been turned into a great lady at one 
stroke!” 

“Who has?” asked Litzie, waking out of her dreamy 
delight with the Elster. “How glorious it was, all golden 
yellow in the sun, like a monstrous polished topaz ; and 
there to the left, lining the water, dark against the clear 
sky, the tall trees ! Who has?” 

“Why, you, Litzie.” 

“Oh, what nonsense, papa! But aren’t we going to 
have anything to eat. I’m so hungry?” 

“I feel something of the same human interest in food 
myself,” said Klaus, looking round at the door. “They 


186 


BROKEN WINGS. 


don’t seem to expect people to be out of their beds so 
early here. Ah, at last !” 

The expected tea came, accompanied by bread, butter, 
and ham. Nina poured out some tea for Klaus and Lit- 
zie, but took none herself and ate only a small piece of 
bread. She behaved like a woman much older than she 
really was; she did everything in an awkward way, 
finicked about this and that, and seemed impatient and 
put out by everything she was not used to. She could 
not bear the food at the hotel, and the monstrous charge 
for everything seemed to weigh every moment on her 
spirits. She had had one of the best beds possible, but 
had slept very badly the night before ; and, quite differ- 
ently from Litzie, she felt duller and less equal to things 
than the first day. She had every symptom now of a 
violent sick headache, and Klaus said : 

“What shall we do after dinner?” 

She replied, quickly: “I think the best thing we can 
do is to go home ; don’t you?” 

“I fancied you wanted to go and see one of your old 
friends who is married and settled here,” said Klaus, 
who had begun to enjoy himself, and sought for some 
pretext for postponing their journey home. 

“Oh! that good Jaworsky,” said Nina. “I have been 
informed that she is married to a physician practicing 
here. But what’s the good of warming up old acquaint- 
anceships like that; we should hardly know one an- 
other?” 

“Well, we might have a little sail in the harbor,” ob- 
served Klaus, humbly. Then Litzie put her hand coax- 
ingly in his and said, in a half whisper : 

“Papa, they’re going to play Lohengrin to-night, I saw 
the bill below in the hall of the hotel.” 


BROKEN WINGS. 


187 


“You rogue, you ! You’d like to see that?” 

“Better than anything in life!” declared Litzie, in a 
funny and dramatically enthusiastic way. 

“And you, old woman?” asked Klaus, putting his hand 
gently on his gray-haired wife’s arm. He was very sorry 
for her at that moment ; and, when in that mood, he was 
especially tender with her. 

“Oh, leave me out of it,” said Nina, in the irritable 
tones a person is apt to speak in when half dead with 
fatigue and stirred up to try and enjoy something. 
“I’ve done with all that sort of thing now!” 

“Are you not well, Nina?” said Klaus, sympathetically. 

“I feel a headache coming on,” replied Nina; “it’s 
not so bad now, but I’m sure I shall be obliged to go to 
bed quite early.” 

“Poor Nina! What a pity!” said Klaus. “Little 
woman, we must give up the theater ; we must think 
of the mother first, of course.” 

“I have a suggestion to make,” said Nina, much 
affected by her husband’s exquisite kindness; “let me 
go back to Elmstadt by the half past three o’clock train, 
and do you two remain here.” 

Klaus and Litzie looked at each other. 

“Shall we let mamma go by herself?” asked Klaus. 
“Won’t you be nervous in Elmstadt without us?” asked 
Litzie, with valiant self-sacrifice. “Are you not too un- 
well to travel alone? You might faint, or something,” 
asked Klaus. 

“Why, old man,” cried Nina, all her good temper re- 
stored, “I shall be safe enough; when I get home I shall 
just go to bed ; and by to-morrow I shall be all right, and 
enjoy your return and all you’ll have to tell me.” 

“Papa !” entreated Litzie, in a small voice. 


188 


BROKEN WINGS. 


“Well, if you’ll promise faithfully to stick to that pro- 
gramme, old woman, we’ll just do as the little one wishes,” 
said Klaus. “But, say, has Litzie a dress fit for the opera? 
People do dress up always for the opera, don’t they?” 

“What do I know about it?” replied Nina, with a some- 
what melancholy shrug. “You speak as though I had been 
used to that sort of thing all these years. In my time the 
ladies in the boxes always appeared with bare shoulders 
at the opera in Paris ; but in the seats where 1 had to go 
people were wrapped up to the tip of their noses. Litzie 
has the white crape, which will be here at noon, and that 
will be quite good enough for the very best seats, and I 
know that you are one of those who cannot imagine how 
any one can possibly take a lady to any other.” 

And so they settled it. 


They dined early— at one o’clock, after the good old 
Elmstadt fashion, and then took Nina to the railroad 
station. They took leave of her affectionately; Klaus 
kissed her hand again and again and went with her into 
the coupe to arrange her shawls and things. Litzie em- 
braced and kissed her, affected to tears ; but, as the train 
went off with its roar, they felt as if a load were taken 
from their hearts. Their spirits rose so that they could 
hardly contain themselves ; it was as much as they could 
do to walk quietly and not set off at a run. Then, all of 
a sudden, they began to go very slowly indeed. They 
exchanged observations about the people that passed, 
they looked into each other’s eyes and laughed. As to 


BROKEN WINGS. 


189 


him, he was in a state of the highest satisfaction, but he 
said very little, and, as is the case with persons of the 
highest breeding, even when most excited, his move- 
ments after the first moments of excitement were marked 
by a certain finish 'and deliberation. But Litzie was in 
one fever, and her tongue did not stop for a moment. He 
bent down to her, delighting in her beauty and in the 
originality which was stamped upon her every move- 
ment and utterance ; and sometimes he did not take 
pains to listen to what she said, contenting himself with 
the music of her gentle voice. He asked her, when they 
started, where she wanted to go. She had not an idea ; 
all she knew was she would like to “go” all the time, 
and she wanted particularly to see the pretty shops. 
Every now and then he stopped with her before some 
display and made her tell him what she would like to 
have. She asked, in her sweet, modest way, for very 
trifling things, but showed the finest taste in her prefer- 
ences. At last he took her in to a jeweler’s and bought 
her a bracelet, a thick gold chain with a pendant heart 
which could be opened. She was in the seventh heaven. 

“I’ll have some of your hair put in the heart — and 
mamma’s,” she murmured. Then they went wandering 
about in a delightfully objectless way, leaving the new 
aristocratic part of Hamburg for the picturesque old 
quarters of the city, the houses of which reminded Litzie 
of English steel engravings of the Hogarth school. Like 
all Holsteiners, the Oldens had had much intercourse and 
many relations with England, and Klaus possessed quite 
a library of interesting illustrated first editions of the 
previous century. 

Litzie was enchanted with these houses, with their 
stories overhanging each other and one window close to 


190 


BROKEN WINGS. 


another, as close as could be, nothing but windows 
hardly, right up to the extreme angle of each wide, tall 
gable; and in the windows, with their old-fashioned 
thick white linen curtains bordered with narrow lace, 
gay flower-pots all in a row ; and, now and then, a par- 
rot screaming in some foreign tongue, the sight of which 
sent Litzie back to Elmstadt directly. 

Here and there an iron arm was stretched out into the 
street, just as in the English illustrations, with a black 
boot or a barber’s tin shaving-pot hanging to it, the signs 
of some cobbler’s or barber’s shop. 

Litzie would have given worlds to have a look behind 
these old-fashioned thick curtains. She pictured to her- 
self the ladies there as going about in cotton dresses with 
a strong flower pattern, with white cambric kerchiefs 
crossed over their bosom, and high caps with bows 
covering their forehead and neck ; the gentlemen were, 
of course, in knee breeches and waistcoats coming down 
nearly to their knees. 

Unfortunately, the inhabitants, at least such as she 
met on the street, were not at all in keeping with these 
poetic imaginings. The few women they met wore the 
most crying, modern costumes of the worst possible 
taste ; and the men— nearly all of them handsome, clear 
blonde fellows— rather heavy about the hips and knees, 
though— looked certainly well enough in their discolored 
work-day clothes ; but, there really could be no mistake 
about it, more than one of J^ose she met was drunk ; a 
thing which highly disgusted the sensitive, delicate girl. 

Klaus suddenly became aware of the fact that he was 
not so familiar as he fancied with the topography of 
Hamburg, and that, in his curious search for picturesque 
architecture, he had wandered into districts better 


BROKEN WINGS. 


191 


avoided. This was brought strongly home to him by 
the fact that, in one very “Hogarthian” spot near the 
harbor, they were suddenly all but surrounded by a 
small mob of sailors who expressed their admiration of 
Litzie in rather too powerful Frisian. A single look 
from him, however, sufficed to make them keep their 
distance ; but, all the same, he thought it best to beat a 
retreat. 

Litzie, who was on his arm, clung a little closer to him 
than before. 

“Do you know what I felt,” she murmured presently, 
“when I was among those strange fellows? Nearly the 
same sort of thrill as I have so often had in the forest 
after nightfall. Oh! it is so delightful to be a little 
afraid, when one knows all the time that one is in your 
care and quite safe.” 


“Are you ready, Litzie?” asked Klaus, knocking at 
the door which separated his chamber from the young 
girl’s; “we ought to start.” 

They had been back at the hotel an hour or so. Thanks 
to their explorations for Hogarthian architecture, they 
had had no time for the projected excursion in the har- 
bor. Klaus had insisted upon it that they must go back 
before it was late, to refresh themselves with a good meal 
and a good rest before going to the theater. The young 
creature displayed the same sturdy appetite at the after- 
noon tea with cold meat which he ordered— the appetite 
of perfect health and innocence— as she had done at din- 


192 


BROKEN WINGS. 


ner. But he ate scarcely anything. What ailed him he 
could not have said, but he was a little feverish. Why 
this should be he had no idea. If anybody had told him 
that he was excited and annoyed by the bold glances 
which some men had directed at Litzie during their walk 
he would have repelled the suggestion as too cynical and 
insulting. 

“Are you ready?” he called again, through the door. 

“Yes, papa. Oh, come in; you can come in now,” she 
cried to him, cheerfully. 

He went in — a little hesitatingly, not quite at his ease ; 
how was that, so suddenly? And the sight of the young 
girl nearly took his breath away. Often as he had taken 
his delight in the sweet, small face of his little wild thing, 
how beautiful the child really was he never knew till 
that moment. 

The simple white crepe with the picturesque sleeves, 
reminding one of the fashions of fifty years before, be- 
came her admirably. Her little dark head, with the 
golden shimmer about the temples and neck, rose be- 
witchingly from her pretty shoulders and the sweet- 
smelling frock. He saw now for the first time how fully 
grown up she really was, and the thought went through 
him, like a lightning stroke, how soon some one would 
come to deprive him of her. He felt his spirits sink 
and his throat tighten. 

She was just in the act of fastening the bracelet on 
her wrist when he entered, and looking up at him, she 
said : 

“Do I suit you so, papa?” 

“You look like the dearest little creature in the world,” 
he murmured, with a weight on his tongue. He held a 
wreath of roses in his>_hand which he had ordered to 


BROKEN WINGS. 


193 


please her — and he could hardly bring himself to offer 
them to her ; all of a sudden they did not seem good 
enough for her. 

“Would you like to have these flowers?” he asked, 
almost shyly. 

“Oh, papa I” she cried, “how sweet and dear you are !” 

She took his hand and kissed it twice, thrice, and then 
put it to her smooth, soft cheek. 

“My sisters always used to stick in a flower or two 
when they went to the theater or a party,” said Klaus. 
“I don’t know if that’s the fashion now, but it looked 
very pretty.” 

Litzie took a few of the roses, they were beautiful pale 
yellow Marshal Niels with rich dark green leaves, and 
fastened them in the light blue waistband of her dress. 

“That’ll do, that’s just right, isn’t it, papa? I — I — do 
I really look nice?” she asked in an uncertain sort of 
way, going and standing before a long mirror. “Oh ! 
papa, pray, pray push the curtains a little further back 
that I may see myself better.” 

He did what she wished. She examined the reflection 
in the glass with solemn self-satisfaction. 

“I really can’t tell, papa — but, somehow, I fancy — tell 
me. Am I really pretty?” she asked. 

“Whether or no, you please me more than 1 can say,” 
he answered. 

She sprang up to him, clasped him in her arms and 
kissed him. 

“But, after all, that does not come to much,” she said ; 
“people are always satisfied with their own children; 
and yet, if I please you that’s more to me than all the 
admiration of all the rest of the world.” 


194 


BROKEN WINGS. 


“You have not tasted any other,” he said, almost in- 
audibly. 

“That’s true enough,” she laughed, “but there’s no 
hurry about that ; I can wait.” 

She kissed his hand again. Hei strange excitement 
manifested itself at that moment in little outbreaks of 
tenderness of that kind, though such demonstrations 
were usually foreign to her. In spite of her enthusias- 
tic love for Klaus, she had, as a general rule, and unless 
extraordinarily moved by some very special occurrence, 
been content to meet him with a simple “good-morning,” 
or leave him with a simple “good-night.” And Klaus 
was now seized with a feeling of discomfort, of embar- 
rassment, the source or significance of which was quite 
obscure to himself. He withdrew his hand. 

“It is really time, now,” he said. 

They went. And it was a strange thing. Litzie had 
been thrown from her bearings, as we have seen, even 
to weeping, by the first shock of her collision with the 
dry, noisy realities of Hamburg life ; but she found her- 
self at once in her own element in the legendary atmos- 
phere of the theater and the opera. Klaus had told her 
all about the libretto, while they were fortifying them- 
selves with tea and ham for the delights of the evening. 
The music she knew pretty thoroughly from the piano- 
forte score. Of course its beauty was now something 
quite different and greater when quickened into life by 
the splendidly vibrating instruments of an orchestra. 
And it caused a certain intoxication of rapture in he r 
which took her altogether out of the world of realities 
and seemed to make her actually breathe and live in the 
very core and center of the legend enacted before her. 

Klaus had never yet seen any one so absorbed with 


BROKEN WINGS. 


195 


every faculty of sight and hearing in the situations of a 
drama, so tragically in sympathy with the fortunes of 
its persons. It seemed indeed as though she was an 
active participator in actual occurrences rather than a 
spectator at a theater. When the chorus of swans began 
she trembled all over, and when the Knight of the Swan 
came on the stage she shrank into herself with a loud 
cry. , 

The Lohengrin of the evening was represented by a 
foreign artist engaged for this one night at an almost 
ridiculously high remuneration. This artist was truly 
great, and a great thinker, and had imbibed the best of 
the influences of the Bayreuth school, as was plainly 
visible in his conception of the part generally and in the 
fine and subtle details with which he worked out that 
conception. The Lohengrin we all know is a heavy- 
fatherly, tedious Lohengrin, who never for a moment 
forgets that he is going to form a connection below him, 
who foresees with practical worldly wisdom the speedy 
end to which his worldly career is to come, and accord- 
ingly takes the little sentimental episode in his super- 
sublime career of knight-errantry with exemplary in- 
difference. But the Lohengrin of that night in Hamburg 
was a sort of archangel, who, having once shaken from 

his soul the initiation and illumination and vows sepa- 

♦ 

rating him from ordinary humanity, gave himself up to 
the “sweet pains” of our usual earthly existence with all 
the forces of his body and soul. But the exterior of the 
artist was not at all in keeping with his conceptions and 
ideals. He was heavily built ; his face was round and 
beardless, and seemed to be robbed of any expression 
that might possibly be there by its framework of heavy 
blonde curls which were such as some archangel of the 


196 


BROKEN WINGS. 


theater might be supposed to wear. But in spite of these 
drawbacks, his artistic purpose was victoriously mani- 
fest, and his meritoriously high aims were fully recog- 
nized and applauded by the audience. His really mag- 
nificent singing, coupled with the magic of the music, 
soon made everybody insensible of the defects of his 
personal appearance. 

At least, it was so with Litzie. Her little head was 
advanced slightly beyond the box, and her large eyes 
were fastened upon the singer's lips with subservient 
fervor. Her color came and went; she was pale and 
red by turns. 

When he cried for the first time to Elsa, in those words 
that have now become proverbial, and in tones of stern, 
almost cruel seriousness, “Never art thou to put ques- 
tion to me 1” when, under the first influence stealing 
upon him of human feeling, he repeated these words 
again, in tones almost of tender lamentation, filled with 
anxiety as to what her answer would be— Litzie breathed 
heavily ; and when he drew Elsa to his breast, with a 
cry of exultation containing the whole essence of human 
happiness at its highest, Litzie’s tears would not be denied 
but flowed without restraint. 

“Collect yourself; I should like to know what makes 
you cry]” said Klaus, correcting her in rather sharp 
tones. 

She looked up at him a little startled, and then laughed 
amid her tears. “Forgive me, papa !” she said, hurriedly 
and with all her own girlish sweetness and cheerfulness 
at once restored. “Fortunately, I’m not the only one 
who is crying. ” She looked about her at the people in 
the front seats of the neighboring boxes, in which there 
were not a few female Wagner enthusiasts of much 


BROKEN WINGS. 


197 


riper years than her own, who were energetically snuf- 
fling and wiping their eyes. 

Klaus perceived that he had spoken much too excitedly 
to her. But, from the moment of Lohengrin’s first com- 
ing on the stage till the end of the first act, he had been 
suffering tortures. The devotion with which. Litzie’s 
eyes were fastened on the singer seemed almost repul- 
sive to him, and he felt almost as though he would like 
to beat her for it. In his eyes this Lohengrin was noth- 
ing but a highly rouged play-actor, and, as a bodily rep- 
resentative of the sublime legend, unendurably awkward, 
grotesque, unsatisfactory. 

The exultation of the other and older ladies, to which 
Litzie drew his attention, instead of diminishing con- 
siderably increased his annoyance. “Yes, it is plain that 
you are not the only one whose fancy he has taken.” 

“Oh, he hasn’t taken my fancy at all,” said Litzie very 
simply, and not at all disturbed by the imputation. ‘ T 
only thought that^ his singing was very beautiful — of 
course, I don’t know much about it, it’s the first tenor 
I’ve ever heard ; perhaps to you it’s no better than the 
crowing in a poultry-yard, but as for me it went to my 
very heart. It’s a pity he’s so dreadfully ugly.” 

Every word she said relieved him of some portion of 
the weight which lay so heavily on his heart. It struck 
him with sudden force that he had been guilty of a re- 
pulsive, even absurd, offense in allowing himself to be 
irritated at her enthusiasm. And he could not help 
thinking how incapable men generally are of sympa- 
thetically appreciating the purity of a young girl’s vir- 
ginal heart. And then he went on to reflect how strange* 
it was that men so often go so wide of the mark in ideal 
overestimation of women of mature years, and so often, 


198 


BROKEN WINGS. 


on the other hand, undervalue so decidedly the merits of 
young girls. And then he sighed to think how very short 
is the life of the sweetest, purest and best of all the 
blooms that spring up in female hearts ; how, in fact, 
it springs up, only, as it would seem, to be plucked, 
broken and thrown aside. And, at the same time, he 
became unpleasantly conscious of what it really was 
that had affected him so painfully. The truth was that 
he had been seized by an immediate grudge against the 
“fat, painted clown,” for his having elicited from her 
heart this first manifestation of intense feeling. It an- 
noyed him bitterly that he, this stranger, should be the 
first to make him, Klaus Olden, perceive how deep this 
young heart was, and to what strange heights of passion 
it might under some circumstances be inflamed. 

In this last single hour the girl seemed to have aged 
by at least a year — the expression of her face was quite 
changed. 

Klaus observed that her beauty occasioned the same 
remark in this brilliantly filled house as it had among 

the sailors in the harbor. One opera-glass after another 

% % 

was directed to the box in which he sat alone with Litzie. 
The people pulled and nudged each other to point out 
the young stranger. Litzie saw nothing of all this ; she 
seemed fully occupied in drinking in the delicious acrid 
perfume of the yellow roses she held in her hand, then 
she suddenly put them down on the ledge of the box, 
saying : 

“He ought, really, to look like you, papa.” 

“Who, Litzie?” 

“Why, this Lohengrin. Then he would be quite per- 
fect.” 


BROKEN WINGS. 


199 


“Are you not hungry, or thirsty, Litzie; shall I take 
you to the refreshment-room?” asked Klaus, in the in- 
terval between the second and third acts. Then, before 
Litzie could answer, the door opened and in stepped a 
dried-looking, yellow-faced man with scanty black hair 
plentifully sprinkled with gray and with a peculiar ex- 
pression of sly humor in his small eyes, which were sur- 
rounded by sharp little wrinkles. His face and general 
• appearance brought up unpleasant recollections in Klaus’s 
mind without his being at first able to determine of wliat 
kind these were. • 

Then the stranger stretched out his hand to him and 
said, in Danish : 

“Don’t you remember me, Klaus Olden?” 

The whole theater turned round with Klaus as if they 
and he had gone crazy together ; the pit flew up to the 
boxes, the gallery tumbled down to the pit ; his forehead 
burst out into perspiration, and he murmured, in a half 
voice : 

‘ ‘Jens ! J ens Larsen ! ’ ’ 

“The same,” Replied the other ; then, with a side glance 
at Litzie he added : “Am I very much in the way?” 

“Why, ho.w can you possibly be in the way ; I am de- 
lighted to see you again !” 

“Oh, well, that’s a matter of course, of course; but a 
man’s best friend may be in the way when he’s on his 
honeymoon excursion ; and that that’s the case with you 
the whole theater has plainly seen, my dear !” 

The blood came up to the very roots of Olden’s hair. 
“The whole theater has made a stupid blunder,” said he 
with difficulty and in a hoarse voice, and then, suddenly 
speaking in German, he added: “Allow me to present 


200 


BROKEN WINGS. 


you my daughter — Mr. Jens Larsen, one of the friends 
of my youth — my daughter, Felicia.” 

It was now the turn of Jens to be startled. He bowed 
to Litzie and said : “That was a pretty sort of mistake of 
mine; I took you for the wife of my old friend, made- 
moiselle.” 

Litzie’s subtle though simple soul had from the first 
moment felt that there was something in Jens different 
from the hearty goodwill usually surrounding her, and, 
like the timid half wild thing she was, had drawn closer' 
to Klaus and taken hold of his hand as if for protection. 
She no w* laughed iu an easy, unconstrained way. 

“Oh ! I understood,” said she; “I know Danish. Papa 
has taught it me. It’s too funny!” And she laughed 
again. 

Klaus asked his old friend to take a seat. But Jens did 
not seem at all at his ease. He had not improved in the 
article of sensitiveness, and he could not make up his 
mind to leave liis little blunder alone ; he recurred to it 
more than once. 

“The whole theater is staring its eyes out at the young 
couple !” 

“Young couple, indeed!” said Klaus, with a touch of 
ill-temper and impatience, “especially so far* as the mas- 
culine element in it is concerned !” 

“Well, well, my dear. You may not know it, but 
there’s no denying that you still look uncommonly well ; 
you can play a youngster’s part still with the best of 
them; nay, better than the best. Ha! ha! you’ve got 
exactly the same expression of high tragedy on your face 
that you always had. Do you remember how I asked you 
at St. Valerie to sit to me for my archangel? What a 
noble archangel you would have made ! And— and, the 


BROKEN WINGS. 


201 


pretty widow, or what was she — I forget — the two ladies 
with a child — you were in love with all three — the child 
was pretty. What has become of the little thing?” 

Klaus sat quite still, feeling just as if he were being 
whipped with stinging nettles, and in such wretchedness 
that he almost wished the house would fall, burying Lit- 
zie and himself in its ruins. 

Jens Larsen sat there stroking his thin pointed mus- 
tache ; he laughed merrily. Jens had evidently been 
going steadily on the downward track since he and 
Klaus spoke last together. The sight of his old friend 
would have been quite painful to the latter, quite apart 
from the immediate cause of his vexation. Larsen’s 
health was, plainly, not of the best. He had all sorts of 
red spots on his face. His eyes shone with unnatural 
brilliancy ; he hacked and coughed, and smelled obtru- 
sively of hot rum-and- water. There could be no doubt 
that he had just swallowed a stiff glass of grog in the 
refreshment-room. All of a sudden he struck his fore- 
head with all the stupid absence of self-restraint one sees 
in people not quite sober, and cried : 

“I say, Klaus, you’ve been telling me a colossal tara- 
diddle. It’s only sixteen years since all that which I 
was talking about just now, and how can mademoiselle 
here be your daughter ; you must have meant your step- 
daughter?” 

Litzie had only laughed at the suggestion that she was 
her papa’s wife, with quite childlike hearty laughter. 
That notion was too irresistibly funny. But the word 
“step-daughter” sounded to her like an insult. She re- 
peated it in an exasperated way, exclaiming : 

“Step-daughter,, indeed ! What an idea !” 

And Klaus said, with as much self-possession as he 


202 


BROKEN WINGS. 


could muster : “I can’t help you out here ; it is really 
my daughter.” 

Jens brought his chair a little nearer, and gave Litzie 
a good long stare ; then a light seemed to dawn on hi3 
soul. 

At this moment Klaus happened to notice a lady, who 
must have been handsome some day, who was dressed 
so as to attract particular remark and whose very lively 
gestures seemed intended to re-enforce the effect of her 
dress. He pointed out this person to Jens, saying : 

“If I am not mistaken, all that inviting and obliging 
demeanor is intended for you. Pray don’t let the lady 
pine any longer ; if I am not mistaken she is quite your 
style.” 

It was impossible to show any one the door more de- 
cisively. Larsen was all the more ready to take the hint 
from the fact that the blandishments of the lady in the 
box opposite were really meant for him, and were not 
without their attraction for him. He recognized her as 
the wife of a German artist to whom he had lately shown 
all sorts of polite attention when she was in Paris. She 
was among the most conspicuous of the hysterical Wag- 
ner enthusiasts, the sort of woman that runs behind the 
scenes after a performance to fling her arms round the 
tenor and kiss him, who are half crazy votaries of Nietz- 
che’s audacious doctrines and Bebel’s ideal of social de- 
mocracy, and who go into ecstasies about everybody and 
everything that belongs to genius, being themselves 
without a particle of healthy human understanding ; the 
sort of creature that is capable of begging and storing 
away in her reliquary a bit of bread and butter which 
some young composer has just bitten off with the inten- 
tion of devouring. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


203 


“Who was that horrible creature?” asked Litzie, with 
an agitated and trembling little voice, after the Dane 
had withdrawn. 

“One of my friends and school-fellows who has gone 
to the bad,” murmured Klaus. 

“How ever did he take it into his head to fancy that 
I could be your step-daughter?” said Litzie, in high 
dudgeon. 

“I must say, it was pretty strong,” said Klaus; “but, 
as you surely must have seen, he was not quite sober.” 

Hardly had Klaus brought out these words, which he 
did with no little difficulty, when something occurred 
which was like a slight stab in the face to him. As he 
looked up he saw Jens /Larsen’s eyes peering intently at 
him from the box opposite, with an expression of small, 
sly cunning. Then Jens rested bis opera-glass on his nose, 
the lady by his side did the same, and then they both 
leveled them at the box where the Oldens were. Then 
they began to exchange remarks in a lively manner. 
The blood began to boil in Klaus’s veins at the thought 
of what might come of those two laying their heads to- 
gether in that way. 


The performance was over. The enamored hero had 
been driven away from his temporary sojourn with mere 
human creatures, driven away by the petty mistrust and 
distrust of the very human Elsa, and forced to recur to 
his exalted knight-errantry and quest of the Holy Grail. 

He had just, with many deep sighs, made the confes- 


204 


BROKEN WINGS. 


sion which was to separate him forever from that human 
happiness which is never without its flavor of strong pain. 
According to all the traditions of the theater one half of 
the public had, of course, run out of the place before 
these final utterances of Lohengrin ; but those who re- 
mained were moved to their utmost depths. That tears 
ran down Litzie’s face unchecked need hardly be said. 
But even the soul of Klaus Olden had been stirred with 
emotions quite peculiar and unexpected. He w as obliged, 
at last, to confess to himself that the performance of the 
“clown'’ was something quite real and great; and, at 
the sublime story told by the Knight of the Grail, when 
he had to reveal his high mission of self-sacrifice in his 
final confession, Klaus Olden had found that lie had 
some tears to dash away from his own eyes. 

“Come, Litzie !’’ cried Klaus when the curtain had 
scarcely fallen. And, while the people still remained in 
the theater, paying their homage of boundless applause 
to the artist, he slipped downstairs with Litzie. He was 
deeply depressed. He scarcely spoke a word to Litzie 
when he sat facing her at supper at the hotel, and was 
glad when he was at last free to retire and lie down un- 
disturbed in his bed. 

Thoughts, feelings, sensations which he had fancied 
had long since died out of him, came up trembling, quiv- 
ering, yearning in his heart. He had felt himself young 
again this night ; nay, it came upon him strongly that he 
had really never ceased to be young. He came to see 
that the contentment with which he had thinly covered 
the great void and empty spaces of his soul had been 
nothing but systematic self-deception, during which his 
deep and real self had kept silent. And, strange as it 
may seem, there are some falsehoods between which and 


BROKEN WINGS. 


205 


our conscience accommodations are possible, and which 
even make the fulfillment of our duty easier to us. 

He began to be unendurably restless. A strong, warm 
spring breeze came along the surface of the ice which 
held the stream in prison ; the ice cracked and burst. 

Woe to the poor stream which, too long kept in du- 
rance, cannot find room in its narrow bed for its danger- 
ously swelling mass and power, when the hour of libera- 
tion comes. That power drives it far, far beyond its 
banks, drives it with such violence that it seems as 
though it set forth to encompass and overflow the world. 
Only, at last— at last, it is doomed to retire within its 
old familiar limits, with the gloomy thought that it has 
wrought destruction and desolation. Poor stream ! 

Klaus had never had a particle of levity about him, 
perhaps it would have been better for him if he had. 
The few adventures in port, which, before his meeting 
with Nina, had niade up the sum of his experiences, had 
been of quite a superficial kind. There had been noth- 
ing in them to satisfy or even call up the enthusiasm of 
which his heart was capable, his tendency to high-flown 
romance, his capacity to take high flights into the 
empyrean. 

He had so firmly persuaded himself that he was quite 
done with all that ! And now — now lie was nearly ninc- 
and-thirty years old — the husband of a woman with gray 
hairs, bound hand and foot. And the old yearning came 
over him again with greater fervor, greater pressure than 
it had exercised even in his youthful years. It was in 
vain that he told himself it was all folly, all morbid or 
boyish immaturity, all utter unreason to suffer like that ; 
that happiness never beat with such strong, warm pulse 
in real life as in a poem. He could not shake off his 


206 


BROKEN WINGS. 


wretched restlessness. The question came up again and 
again in his breast: Why, why had he, just he, been 
obliged to forego the greatest and highest of all the rapt- 
ures of existence, those paroxysms of delight mingled 
with anguish which even angels in their bliss envy mere 
mortals for ! IIow was it that he, just he, so abounding in 
the wealth' of the heart, had been forced to keep all that 
wealth to himself and never lavish it on another? There 
had been days when he had tried his very best to lay 
himself, and all the treasures of his inner life, at the feet 
of the woman who might rather be said to bear his name 
than be his wife. And he shuddered at the recollection of 
Nina’s absolute inability to enter into his exalted thought 
and feeling, the utter blank of intelligence with which 
she met him. 

He thought of what Jens Larsen had said at St. Valerie : 

“It is horrible to have to drag a pair of broken wings 
about with one all through life, and never to be able to 
get rid of them.” 

Hardly had his thoughts recurred to Jens Larsen when 
his feeling of restlessness and melancholy became min- 
gled with a dull, heavy sense of miserable oppression and 
discomfort that semed quite different in kind. 

“Oh, what nonsense, what absurdity it all was!” He 
clinched his fists and buried his teeth in his lips. “This 
sort of thing must be put down at any cost !” He sighed 
and rose in his bed to put out the lights which were close 
to his bed — when suddenly a thrill went through him 
from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot. 

In the adjoining chamber he heard a soft, low singing ; 
it was Litzie, humming the melody of the Bridal duo to 
herself : 

“Didst thou not breathe those odors sweet?” 


BROKEN WINGS. 


20 ? 

He listened — listened ! 

There was a gentle knock at the door. 

‘ May I come in, papa?” called a delicate, small voice. 
‘‘Are you in bed by this time?” 

“Yes.” 

The door was opened and Litzie stepped in. She had 
on a very pretty white petticoat, and a little white dress- 
ing-gown, with lace borders. Her rich hair was all let 
down and was flowing over her shouders, and she had 
just begun trying to comb it with a tortoise-shell comb, 
which she seemed to find a difficulty in doing, from its 
fullness. 

Klaus had often seen her costumed so, with her hair 
let down and the slender round arms shimmering out of 
the broad sleeves of her little dressing-gown. But this 
was the first time that the girl’s ease with him pro- 
duced a distinct and special impression upon him. That 
word which Jens Larsen had spoken came sharply back 
to him — “step-daughter!” And, with the word, came 
the thought, more or less distinct, that there was some- 
thing unfitting, nay, almost unseemly, in her being with 
him in such a condition. He had no real right to all this 
sweet, childlike intimacy, to this sweet sight of her in 
costume of such privacy and with her splendid hair freed 
from all restraint. "Wliat was her boundless confidence, 
her absolute freedom of manner, what was it all, but the 
fruit of an illusion in which she had been brought up 
since her childhood? An illusion, nay, a falsehood! 
What would she say if any accident were to befall that 
would open her eyes to the real facts? Why, she would 
almost die of shame f His breath came with difficulty 
as he thought of it. 

But she came up to him as tranquilly as possible. She 


208 


BROKEN WINGS. 


seated herself on the edge of his bed and went on comb- 
ing her long hair. The blood flew to his head and there 
came a tightness in his throat. What business had this 
girl, who was none of his blood, here with him in the 
middle of the night? And again he saw the eyes of the 
Dane, Jens Larsen, peering at him with that ignoble, sly, 
mistrustful look S 

“Do you want anything?” he asked, hoarsely. 

“No, papa,” said she. “But as I heard through the 
door that you were still awake, I thought I should like to 
gossip with you a little more. It was all too lovely, and 
I didn’t want to go to bed again without having thanked 
you more than I have done.” 

“What for, I should like to know, little mutton head?” 
he murmured, falling involuntarily into his usual tone 
with her. 

“Well, if you ask me, I really don’t know where I 
ought to begin in thanking you. First, for life itself ; 
and then for the happiness I have in it. I hear of so 
many people who find life melancholy, and I — well, I 
have never had one day of sadness ; no, not even one 
hour ! And all that I owe to you, all, all to you !” 

“And mamma,” said he slowly. 

“Oh, yes, of course, of course; but that’s not the same 
thing at all,” said Litzie. “Mamma is so sweet and good 
and kind to me ; no one could possibly be more tender 
and patient, no one so good. But, after ail, She is not 
my real mamma. ’ ’ 

Klaus was startled indeed. 

“Why, who’s been talking such nonsense as that to 
you?” 

“Oh, I’ve known it for a long time. It was Mother 


BROKEN WINGS. 


209 


Erickson told me first. I’ve never said a word about it 
to mamma ; I didn’t want to pain her.” 

Klaus was speechless ; Litzie went on tugging at her 
refractory, too luxurious hair. It seemed to him as if 
the very air was filled with danger. 

“Now, you’d really better make haste and go to bed,” 
he said, reprovingly. 

“Yes, yes, papa, of course, directly I’ve done with my 
hair ; but I can’t get it right to-night at all. Mamma, 
dear, sweet, good mamma, comes and does it for me 
every day ; I never had to attend to it myself, that’s why 
I’m so awkward ; the more I work at it the more jumbled 
up it gets ; and it really is too thick ; there, just look, 
take a good hold of it !” 

She pushed toward him the whole soft, odorous brown 
mass of her hair. He plunged his hand in and grasped 
it, then withdrew his hand slowly. And Litzie went 
on : 

“It is so nice to gossip with you; and I never felt in 
such a way as I do to-day. It really was too lovely at 
the theater to-night ! The music is dancing about in my 
heart, in my head, all over me. But it was so horribly 
sad. Ah !” And a really magnificent wrath came flash- 
ing from the eyes of the young girl. “How could she, 
how could she !” 

“Who?” he asked, not following her. 

“Why, Elsa! torture him so with her distrust. Just 
think, papa, the whole world believed in him ; there was 
only one creature who dared to suspect him, and that was 
a wicked woman whom nobody respected, and yet, be- 
cause this woman spoke against him, Elsa lost confidence 
in herself, her courage failed, and then she got to mis- 
trust him. Papa, if the whole world was against you— 


210 


BROKEN WINGS. 


the whole world — and proofs upon proofs upon proofs 
were brought up against you, I should take your word 
before them all!” 

She was still pulling at her hair. “And this I tell you, 
papa : there is nothing in the world, I don’t care how 
strange or monstrous it might seem, that I wouldn’t do 
if you told me. If I were standing out there on the cliff, 
and you were to be below and were to call out and tell 
me to jump down to you, I shouldn’t stop to think one 
moment ; I should be quite sure that you would catch me 
safely in your arms, quite.” He lifted up his eyes and 
looked steadily at her ; her large eyes shone bright with 
enthusiasm, making more marked the pallor of her face. 
His breathing become slower and heavier. “And then 
to think that there should be any feeling in this world 
stronger than my feeling for you,” Litzie murmured, 
reflectively, “a feeling that should allure me away from 
you!” 

“But you don’t believe there is; it is not long since 
you declared so positively that you couldn’t think of any 
life for yourself without me,” said Klaus, incisively. 

“Of course, of course — but — ” 

“Well, what?” 

“Something has come over me to-da»y which makes me 
fancy that there must be things in this world which I’ve 
never dreamed of yet. I can’t understand it at all, of 
course I can’t. If I can believe my own heart, I feel sure 
that I would rather forsake the whole world for your sake 
than you for a single person’s sake. Oh ! to forsake you , 
to live without you ! — not to see you every day as it came, 
not to know the. delight of your footstep when you come 
home, not to be able to think, when I see or read or think 
of anything nice, ‘I must show papa that, I must tell papa 


BROKEN WINGS. 


211 


that !’ No, papa, no ! You needn’t be afraid ; I never, 
never could be so devoted to any one as to you !” Tears 
rolled down her cheeks. He could scarcely breathe. 

Fortunately, she had by this time come to an end of 
her troubles witli her hair. 

“And now have a nice, good, long sleep, papa,*’ she 
said, “and forgive me for keeping you so long awake 
with my chatter.” She knelt down by his bed, put her 
arm under his neck and kissed him in her fond, simple, 
childlike way. “Good-night, you dear one, God protect 
you ; and once more I thank you, again and again !” 

And so she glided out of the room ; the door closed be- 
hind her, he was alone. He heard her going about and 
doing things in her room a while ; then murmuring her 
prayers ; then he heard her innocent, regular breathing ; 
she was asleep. 

But he slept not ; and he knew now that, as long as 
life should last, never again would he know tranquil 
sleep, never again. 

That look of Jens Larsen, that ignoble, sly, significant 
look, had produced upon him the effect of a light sud- 
denly held before the eyes of a somnambulist walking 
in all security at the edge of an abyss. 

The somnambulist was startled out of sleep, and the 
abyss at his feet was revealed to him ; his head became 
giddy, and he knew too well that it was a giddiness that 
would continue. 

And what he caught sight of at the bottom of the abyss 
was something so horrible that he did not dare to look 
more closely at it to see what the fullness of its dread 
presence might be. 


212 


BROKEN WINGS. 


When he returned to Elmstadt he was a changed 
creature ; but, in the first days, the altered state of soul 
which he brought back with him from that visit to Ham- 
burg was not of a kind to attract attention or remark. 
He was only rather restless and stayed within doors less 
than formerly. He was as amiable as ever with the in- 
mates of his house, and to Nina he was more tender and 
attentive than ever. It was only in his bearing toward 
Litzie that he showed any marked alteration. When he 
spoke with her he fell into a somewhat provocative and 
mocking tone, such as he had hitherto been a stranger 
to, and he made the time when they had to be alone to- 
gether always as short as possible. But he was, as ever, 
kind and thoughtful in all he said to or did for her ; in 
that there was no change. So the girl supposed that his 
altered mood was occasioned by occurrences out of doors 
with which she was not concerned or mixed up in any 
way; she was secretly very sorry for him, that was all; 
except only that she made up her mind to wait with all 
jiatience till this displeasure of his should disappear. 

But, as time went on, things became worse, not better ; 
and her shy entreaties that he would take her for a sail 
or out for a walk with him were repulsed with increas- 
ing decision and curtness. And the girl became verv 
sad. 

It was worse, too, for her, because of the fact that he 
looked ill and, in spite of the severe constraint in which 
he held himself; the state of torture in which he passed 
his days showed itself more and more from day to day. 

Every day he came home to dinner with the same pain- 
fully forced cheerfulness, boasted of his colossal appetite, 
and then, after swallowing the first spoonful of soup, sat 


BROKEN WINGS. 


213 


before his plate without further touching his food, with- 
out saying a word, and with hands all of a tremble. And 
when Litzie saw him in this condition her soft young 
heart overflowed with compassion. The pain he caused 
her was altogether forgotten, and she saw only that he 
was suffering, and deeply. And it was truly affecting 
to observe all the little devices and tendernesses by which 
she tried to divert him from and make him forget his 
trouble. 

When he was away from home she slipped into his 
work-room, set it to rights, and put his favorite flowers 
on his writing table ; she reminded Nina about his little 
culinary predilections; mamma had better have this 
dish, or that, prepared for him, or perhaps he would 
fancy this other thing. And, in the evening, when she 
knew that he was in the garden and saw that it would 
be painful to him to talk, she went to the pretty parlor 
which opened on to the garden and seated herself at the 
Bechstein grand, which he had given her on her fifteenth 
birthday, and played, low and softly, pieces that he had 
liked best to hear from her hand — sweet, insinuating, 
lulling music, the Andante of Beethoven, Sonata Pathe- 
tique, or the last movement of his Op. 91, or Schumann’s 
Abendmusik. 

On one occasion she noticed that he had come to the 
door of the parlor to listen to her. Her heart beat with 
pleasure. She went on playing in lower and lower tones 
and with more and more intense expression. Her play- 
ing was uncommonly fine for her years, especially in 
view of the fact that she had never had the opportunity 
of hearing great artists and, so, of enlarging her concep- 
tions. After a little while she felt that he had come 
nearer, and looking round saw him at the door of the 


214 


BROKEN WINGS. 


room. It was spring, and twilight is long in Holstein at 
that season, and there was still light enough for him to 
see the tender smile with which she greeted him. 

"Go on playing,” he murmured, and his voice sounded 
hoarsely. 

“Does it really give you some little pleasure?” 

“Yes,” he said, curtly. 

That was enough ; she went on with her playing. 

After a while she looked round, he was not now stand- 
ing at the door, but she saw him some little way outside 
in the garden. He had brought his basket chair near the 
door and was seated in it, deeply bowed down, with his 
elbow on his knee and his head in his hand, his whole 
attitude betokening grief and trouble. 

She stepped out and seated herself gently by his side, 
but not in that close, coaxing proximity which had been 
her wont. She had not failed to notice that her tender- 
nesses seemed to vex and annoy him, and all she thought 
of was to spare him. She laid her hand shyly and mod- 
estly on the arm of his chair. 

“Papa!” she whispered low. 

“What, Litzie?” he asked her, in tones less peremptory 
and harsh than he had lately used, but in a deadly-tired 
voice. 

She moved a little nearer to him, almost involuntarily. 
“It’s terribly encroaching of me to put any questions to 
you, papa,” she said, in low tones, “but I should so much, 
so very much, like to know what it is that gives you so 
much pain; I should be so thankful if I might share your 
trouble, whatever it is.” 

“You are quite mistaken,” he said, rising with diffi- 
culty to an erect posture and gathering himself together. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


215 


“There’s nothing worrying me. You’re spinning cob- 
webs in your little brain.” 

“Cobwebs! oh, papa!” She looked at him sadly and 
tenderly with those large eyes of hers, now streaming 
with tears. “Can you say such a thing as that to me? 
When a being like you, one^ with your inexhaustibly 
good heart, lets day after day go by and cannot bring 
himself to say a single affectionate word to the — the 
people whose very sunshine he is, whose . only light and 
warmth comes from him, how can I help being certain 
that he is unhappy? He must be unhappy, unhappy al- 
most to the losing of his senses !” 

He looked up at her almost in his own despite. Was 
that a child that was speaking to him? Was that the 
sweet rogue, the playful little comrade with whom he 
used to have the long walks in the lovely moonlit nights 
over the silvery, shimmering gray marshes ? No ! All 
of the child that was left her was her unfathomable 
purity and innocence. In all other respects she had 
suddenly, under the strong pressure of the last days, 
developed into a mature, noble, great-hearted woman ! 

“I know that your principal fear is that you may give 
me pain. You’d rather endure it all and keep it all to 
yourself than throw a shadow on my cheerfulness. But 
oh, heavens! how can you hinder it? I would rather 
bear the worst affliction than see you wearing yourself 
to death in dumb, hopeless grief. If I cannot take away 
all your burden, let us at least share it together. I’ll 
take one half and you shall keep the other ; two can bear 
it so much better than one, and bit by bit we shall be 
able to console each other. Papa, I beg and entreat 
you ! What is the matter with you?” 

“Yes, indeed, if I could tell you that, it might fare 


216 


BROKEN WINGS. 


better with me!” he exclaimed, more roughly than he 
had ever yet spoken to her. Her tenderness, the sweet- 
ness of her voice, the beauty of her pale, tearful face, 
nearly deprived him of all his self-possession. 

“And you cannot !” she murmured. 

“No, and never ask me about it again ! Do you hear? 
never, never !” he cried, violently ; then, with something 
of cutting mockery in his voice: “Remember Elsa of 
Brabant ! ’ ’ 

“Papa, for God’s sake ! is it then something which — if 
you told it me, would oblige you to go away from us?” 

“Indeed, yes, most decidedly so!” he exclaimed, and 
laughed an ugly sort of laugh. 

She was a little frightened and recoiled for a moment, 
but only for a moment, and then her pity returned in 
tenfold strength. 

He could have killed himself for the foolish words 
which had slipped from him with as little intention or 
purpose as the rattling in the throat of a dying man. 
And he became anxious, alarmed, almost to madness, by 
the fear that she might have divined his secret. And it 
was only, on second thoughts, that he saw how foolish 
was his fear. 

He had raised himself till he was quite upright ; he 
trembled in his whole body, and his eyes had something 
of the look of a wild beast, hunted down till all the 
strength had left it, and seeing no way of escape. 

She was silent for a moment, and said then, with some 
solemnity : 

“I won’t put a single further question to you, papa!” 
Then she threw herself sobbing on his neck, and clasp- 
ing him with both arms, as though to fling herself be- 


BROKEN WINGS. 


217 


tween him and all the suffering this world could bring, 
she exclaimed : 

“Oh, you poor, poor, dear love !” 

For a moment, a quite brief moment, the world seemed 
to turn round with him. Then, he seized her with a sud- 
den force, just as a person might one he has a horror of, 
and thrust her violently away from him. 

She all but fell backward ; she clasped her forehead 
with her hands, gazed at him with a fixed, helpless look 
from eyes the very light of which seemed extinguished ; 
and then left his presence with heavy, long, despairing 
steps. 

He had thrust her away violently, as though he had a 
horror of her^ he ! of her ! 

Alas ! it was himself of whom he had a horror. 


After that day Litzie dragged herself about like a 
creature distraught. She never uttered a word of com- 
plaint nor allowed any one to know anything of what 
was passing within her. 

She fell into a habit of almost unbroken silence, and 
ate even less than Klaus. At meals she sat in dumb, pa- 
tient suffering before the plate which she supplied plen- 
tifully to avoid remonstrance or persuasion; but she 
hardly touched the food at all. 

Day by day she became paler and lost flesh rapidly ; 
imd the look in her eyes became more fixed, that un- 
happy look of one steadily gazing at vacancy and seem- 
ing as though it were seeking for the solution of some 


218 


BROKEN WINGS. 


terrible, baffling mystery. She was wholly unable to 
understand; and because she was unable she went on 
thus, treading slowly, slowly the path to the grave. 

The alteration in Klaus, and above all in his demeanor 
and behavior to Litzie, became now so striking and un- 
disguised that it could hardly have escaped the observa- 
tion of a woman much less sharpsighted than Nina. But 
Nina very soon made a discovery which, she satisfied 
herself, fully accounted for the transformation her hus- 
band had undergone. 

In quite a casual way, and not as laying any particular 
stress on it, Litzie had, after their return from Hamburg 
— and before the situation had taken its serious and men- 
acing turn — mentioned Jens Larsen and his rudely ob- 
trusive questions. Nina, who knew so well to what a 
pitch, almost of unreason, her husband’s feelings about 
dignity and conduct carried him sometimes, could only 
conclude that the Dane’s curiosity, the manifestations 
of which, at St. Valerie, she had never forgotten, had 
brought up again all the recollections of her wretched 
past, and, with them, the feeling that Litzie was not his 
child but another’s, and the offspring of sin. 

She told herself that this was not a thing for which he 
was to be blamed, it was no more than the natural course 
of events ! Sooner or later it was bound to happen. But 
why. then, had he spoiled the child so that the poor thing 
could not help feeling the severity with which he now 
held aloof with all the greater sense of pain and injury? 
And, think over ifr as she would, there was something, 
after all, which remained unaccountable to her, and that 
was that so sudden and complete a revolution in his feel- 
ings and demeanor should have been induced by an oc- 
casion so slight and provocation so little. The more her 


BROKEN WINGS. 


219 


memory dwelt upon the unfailing and unbounded ten- 
derness which he had shown up to that juncture the less 
accountable was the whole affair to her understanding. 
But — but, and here she shrugged her shoulder with pain- 
ful memories of the past — it was only too clear that he 
had been seized with a sudden aversion to the child. 
There was something, she supposed, at the bottom of a 
man’s nature which made that sort of thing inevitable. 
She was one who knew life and human beings very little, 
and who never taxed her powers by much thinking over 
life’s difficulties; so she soon gave up all attempts to 
pierce the mystery and allowed matters to take their 
own course. She had not the courage to open the sub- 
ject with Klaus. As each day came she made up her 
mind, as she supposed, to do so ; but, at the last moment, 
when she was on the point of saying what she had in- 
tended, for the purpose of bringing about a complete 
explanation and discussion, her lips closed, involuntarily 
almost, and she was unable to utter a single word. 

Meantime, Litzie’s condition became more serious all 
the time ; and Nina saw plainly that something would 
positively have to be done for the poor child’s relief if 
she was not to go to utter destruction. 


Klaus saw it too, but, think over it as he would and 
with all the intensity of his nature, he could not see what 
could be done. 

As long as it had been at all possible to him he had ab- 


220 BROKEN WINGS. 

stained from giving shape and name to the horrible thing 
that had befallen him ; had refrained from gazing too 
steadily into the depths of the abyss nigh which he stood, 
one look at which made him giddy and sick. In the first 
days aft e? their return from Hamburg he had allowed 
himself to hope that the crisis was one that would soon 
pass over, and that, horrible as it was, there was in it, 
after all, no more than might be accounted for by nerves 
that had been subjected to too great a strain. He was 
one in whom every sort of moral disorder inspired bound- 
less horror. And great was his disgust with himself — so 
great that he became almost helpless in his despair — at 
finding that the long martyrdom of his married life had 
taken such a shape as this, and that his fancy or imagina- 
tion entered upon a path of such peril and terror. He 
allowed himself to hope that it would be better with him 
in a little further time. But day followed day, and it 
was not so. And after that one day when Litzie, with 
those eyes of hers overflowing with tears, had implored 
him to let her share his great suffering, since that mo- 
ment when she had flung her arms about him and he 
had thrust her from him as though she inspired him 
with horror, since that day, the fire burned in his veins 
without ceasing, by day and by night. 

He could not endure remaining at home, and he neg- 
lected his school of navigation. He spent nearly all 
the long days of the spring, which were fast lengthen- 
ing into days of summer, on the ocean in his little sail- 
ing boat. It became more and more his custom to put 
out alone and afar, without the company or the help of 
the sailor who was regularly in his service. 

The seafaring folk remonstrated with him about it, 
declaring that it was not safe for him to go tossing about 


BROKEN WINGS. 


221 


in that nutshell of a boat on that sea ; in fine weather it 
might pass, but suppose a storm came up? 

He laughed at them and did exactly as he pleased. 
And what dangers could the sea have for him, the mere 
sea? f/F 

His thoughts were fixed on that one being only, only 
on that one; there was room for nothing else in his 
thought. This one single Litzie on whom his thoughts 
thus exclusively dwelt came before him in many, many 
guises and ages. There was the Litzie with the badly 
scratched little round limbs, and with a deep Heligoland 
cap surrounding her sweet small face, screaming after 
him and running after him at St. Valerie. 

There was a Litzie, five years old, in long black stock- 
ings, in a loose dark-blue dress and with a big red sash 
round her waist, taking hold of him with her tender 
little hands and drawing him to the table where she 
had formed the first sentence she ever put together in 
her life — with the box of wooden letters he had given 
her: “I am very fond of my papa.” How plainly he 
saw her before him. How she looks up at him once 
again ! Her head was only just on a level with the table. 
She looks up at him with a solemn, triumphant look, 
awaiting the praise which he is sure to bestow on her 
masterpiece of art ; and, in the look, there is a certain 
amount of roguish coquetry too ; she knew well enough 
what an effect her tender affection had on him. And 
then how he would take her little person in his two 
hands, lift her up, smother her with kisses and toss her 
in the air ! And, how she would laugh and scream with 
delight ! Her voice was still in his ears ; and when she 
was tired out at last, she settled herself comfortably on 
his arm, clasped his neck with her little arms, snuggled 


•222 


BROKEN WINGS. 


her head between his shoulder and cheek, and murmured 
into his neck, in a voice half sleepy, half roguish, “I am 
very fond of my papa.” 

Again ; he saw her, once again, as she was on the com- 
fortable winter nights. The sea is raging noisily out of 
doors ; Nina is nodding in an easy-chair, with her knit- 
ting on her knees. Litzie is sitting opposite him under 
the hanging lamp, in the cozy dining-room with its 
mahogany furniture and horsehair coverings — Litzie, 
and her large eyes are fastened rapturously upon his 
face and following the movement of his lips, while he 
reads to her the finest passages, or such parts as her 
young mind could take in, from his favorite poets. 

He saw, once again, when just between childhood and 
hoydenish early girlhood, she lay ill, very ill, in her 
little' bed with hollow, too lustrous eyes, and little 
cheeks, reddened with fever. And how many nights 
had he sat by her side, then, watching, watching ; while 
Nina, quite tired out, was sleeping on her couch in the 
adjoining room. 

Then he saw her, when she was convalescent from 
that illness, sitting propped up with pillows in her little 
bed, with her hair nicely arranged, and a thick plait 
hanging over each shoulder on her bosom, her cheek 
sunken and her lips protruding, and her poor little lean 
hands just emerging from the sleeves of her nightgown ; 
and round her neck a little handkerchief of faded pale- 
blue silk, and on the coverlet before her an open book. 

And the smile of delight with which she always greeted 
him on his coming into the room ! What long stories he 
had told her, what lots of things he had read out to her ! 
And then, when the recovery was slow, slower than was 
expected, and the physician insisted that she must spend 


BROKEN WINGS. 


223 


a few hours every day in the fresh air, Klaus it was who 
every day carried her down in his arms and deposited 
her carefully on the couch which had been placed in that 
part of the garden where the air was best and the per- 
fume sweetest. And he it was who carried her upstairs 
to her little room again, regularly every evening, where 
Nina took her from his arms. 

Yes, he had spoiled her, guarded her, tended her, as 
though she had been his own daughter — but she was not 
his daughter. That one ignoble, sly, suspicious look of 
Jens Larsen had suddenly struck away from his rela- 
tions with her all consecrating illusion, the dreams were 
gone, and the half-light, too ; the truth, in all its bare- 
ness, was upon him. 

And all thought of the child that had been disappeared 
in the gulf of the past. What he now saw before him 
was a young girl, in the first fullness of her splendid 
bloom, with large, profound eyes set in a face pale with 
spiritual force and passion. 

And, again and again, came back her voice to him as 
she said: “And if I were standing on the cliff yonder, 
and you were to call for me, I should not reflect one 
moment, but should leap down to you!” 

And what rapture would be that man’s, into whose 
arms she should some day throw herself ! How amply 
would she be able to endow some other with all that he 
had yearned for so bitterly all his life ; all that he had, 
perforce, gone hungry without. 

He lay down at full length at the bottom of his little 
boat and let it go whither it would. And it went, further, 
further, further out to sea. And if it foundered, what 
was that to him? 


224 


BROKEN WINGS. 


There was but one rock ahead of him of which he was 
afraid ; only one. 

And when he was far from her, far, quite far, when 
both the mighty sea and the Maker thereof were placed 
between him and temptation, more than once he gave up 
the internal struggle from sheer exhaustion; then he 
gave free course to his imagination, and allowed himself 
to picture everything that might have been, if — if — ? 

No ; not so. His higher, better nature rebelled even 
then against such freedom of his thought, and forced it, 
at the last moment, in other directions. And, at that 
moment, there would come before him, as if in very 
presence, Litzie herself, as she now went creeping about 
the house, pale, wretched, lean! And that was terri- 
ble — that was the worst part of it all. 

My God ! my God ! As for himself, he could bear to 
the end what must be borne. But to see her wasting 
her sweet young life away with grief, and not to dare 
to put out his hand to help her ! Oh ! that, that ! And 
when he thought of it he laid his head on his arms and 
sobbed hoarsely, violently, as full-grown men of serious, 
earnest temper do sob. 

Some issue ! Some means of escape from this terrible 
situation! He looked about in every direction, now 
calmly, now convulsively for it ! Some healing, some- 
thing to tranquilize ! But, where — where? 


One day, when he was alone with Nina, he led the 
conversation of his own accord to the subject of the 


BROKEN WINGS. 


225 


( 

journey to Austria. He pressed it on her. When could 
she make up her mind to go ? She looked at him with 
some astonishment. 

“Why, it was settled that we were to go in the begin- 
ning of July !” she said; and added, “I was afraid that 
you had lost all fancy for the trip.” 

“I? Oh, as for me, I shall not accompany you; most 
decidedly not !” he answered her, roughly. 

“But, Klaus, I have had all this out with you before. 
I cannot go home without you, indeed I cannot, it is 
quite out of the question !” remonstrated Nina. 

“I don’t see that at all, not the least in the world,” said 
Klaus, warmly ; “on the contrary, I think you ought to 
start as soon — as soon as possible; it will do the — the 
child good, too. She looks wretchedly unwell.” 

“She does, indeed, and I see no help for it,” said Nina 
sadly. “Do you really think she’ll improve if I inform 
her that we are to make the journey to Austria, as soon 
as we possibly can, and without you? Don’t you think 
she knows quite enough to say to herself, ‘We are a bur- 
den to papa, he wants to get us out of the way?’ You 
have taken a dislike to her, and the feeling has been 
growing upon you lately with each day. She feels it, 
and that is the reason she looks so ill — that, and no 
other.” 

“Dislike, dislike!” murmured Klaus. “What a word 
to use ! It is only that she produces in me, somehow, 
nervous irritability, now and then; that is all.” 

“Nervous irritability!” repeated Nina, not without 
bitterness. “She never used to produce nervous irrita- 
bility in you. As long as you were alone with us and 
the goodness of God, everything went well. But it only 
needed that a few hard and cruel eyes of the people of 


226 


BROKEN WINGS. 


the world should direct themselves full on you— only 
that, for the whole edifice to fall in ruins. You were 
ashamed. Yes, after nearly sixteen years, you were 
ashamed of your own kindness, of your own goodness ! 
And now you are ashamed of the child, just as you are 
ashamed that you — that you — oh, Klaus, Klaus! Was 
it worth while our doing everything — your doing every- 
thing, more than everything, for fifteen long years to 
make a heaven on earth for us, if you were in the end 
to make us so very, very wretched? I cannot under- 
stand you. I cannot make one piece of your dealings 
with us at all. You are quite changed. Now and then. 
I fancy that some evil spirit must have come and taken 
possession of you !” 

He cleared his throat once or twice, as though he were 
going to say something ; but he could not utter a word. 
And, at last, he left her without having said anything 
whatever. She heard him ascending the stairs with 
heavy footsteps, she heard him going into his work- 
room, she heard him turn the key in the lock when he 
had crossed its threshold. 


It was night, after this scene, and about ten o’clock. 
The pale summer twilight of the north enveloped every- 
thing ; in the eastern horizon there was a "full moon, 
with no light in it yet, as yet nothing but a large red 
circle gliding slowly among masses of gray clouds. 

Klaus went out into the garden for a solitary walk. 

Nina came out and joined him abruptly. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


227 


“Klaus!” she said, in a low, beseeching voice. 

“What is the matter?” he asked, quite gently; he took 
pain3 to be gentle always with her ; in that respect he 
was what he always had been. 

“God help me ! Litzie causes me inexpressible anxiety. 
I don't want to hurt you by any reproaches, indeed not. 
I see, indeed, how earnestly you struggle with yourself, 
and how much the struggle costs you, not to show your 
aversion. But the aversion is there; there is no mistak- 
ing that. If you had not spoiled her so irrationally be- 
fore, she would not have felt the difference in you now 
so terribly. But as things are, she — she — she’s dying of 
it.” Nina burst into tears. 

“My poor Nina ! You see things too darkly. The little 
one will come all right ; she is a little out of condition ; 
we all are; it’s nothing more than that.” 

“A little out of condition — nothing more?” Nina 
wrung her hands. “Just now, after supper, I tried to 
induce her to agree to our going to Austria without you. 
And where is she now? She’s out there in the church- 
yard, crouching down by the grave of your sister ! I’ve 
gone out three times to fetch her back home, and I can 
do nothing with her. I cannot get her away. I entreat 
you, Klaus, go and fetch her.” 

He stood suddenly still, in the middle of the garden- 
path bordered by lilacs ; it was there that Nina had come 
to join him. She saw how he trembled and almost re- 
coiled. 

“I cannot,” he murmured. “And one ought not to 
humor her obstinacy.” 

“Obstinacy!” repeated Nina, her clasped hands mov- 
ing convulsively. “The poor creature is just simply in 
despair ! I don’t know what to do with her ; I don’t, in- 


228 


BROKEN WINGS. 


deed. I am all the time afraid, more and more afraid, 
that she will lose her reason or do herself some mischief. 
Is it possible that you see nothing of all this, Klaus? You, 
who used to be the tenderest-hearted, warmest-hearted 
creature in the whole world?” 

He stood there like a man turned to stone. She lifted 
up her hands and went on more and more urgently: 
“Klaus, I implore you, not for my sake, not for her sake, 
for your own sake, for God’s own sake, master yourself 
— only for a few, few days, and do be a little kind to her. 
Just as soon as you’ve helped her to get a little peace of 
mind and self-possession I’ll go away with her — I’ll pre- 
tend that you’re going to follow us, I’ll make any pre- 
text you please, I’ll put up with the humiliation of going 
back to my people without you. I will, without a word 
— but do, do have some pity for the poor child ! Go, I 
entreat you, Klaus, do go and fetch her and bring her 
home !” 

He stood there a few moment longer, saying not one 
word, and with a set, fixed look. And then he went, 
very slowly, with hesitating steps. Nor did he go by 
the straightest path ; he went by the paths which would 
make it as long as possible before he reached the little 
side gate in the garden wall leading out into the road ; 
but, at last, he came to the gate. 


Never had Nina seen a human creature whose bear- 
ing indicated such strong repulsion to the carrying out 
of a formed purpose. She was almost inclined to call 


BROKEN WING*. 


229 


him back. Perhaps he would ill-treat the child; per- 
haps he would want to drag her away with force from 
the grave ! Perhaps she had been in the wrong in forc- 
ing him to do what he so evidently shrunk from ! 

She was on the point of calling him back, when the 
little gate closed upon him and he was gone. 

Her heart began to beat with terrible violence, with 
dull, strong, heavy strokes that made it almost impos- 
sible for her to breathe, and a sense of impending mis- 
fortune came upon her, an obscure presentiment of some- 
thing fearful ; God alone could know — what ! 


Klaus stopped at the little lo\y, whitewashed gate of 
the churchyard, and looked into it. The churchyard lay 
before him in the half-light, filled with the perfume of 
roses. And the light was transparent, almost a white 
light, almost as much so as that which, on early sum- 
mer mornings, heralds the full splendors of the sunrise. 

There, between the cold gravestones and the crosses, 
around which bloomed rosebushes and jasmines, there 
lay, half upon and half beside the grave of his sister, 
something whose outlines he could not clearly make out. 

Klaus bent forward, as though to catch some sounds of 
grief that might come to him, of tears or sobs ; but not a 
sound was audible. Everything above the earth there was 
as still and soundless as in the graves below ; he could 
hear nothing except the slight, scarcely perceptible sound 
made by some withered rose as its leaves fell scattering 
to the ground, and, in the distance, the monotonous, ever- 


230 


BROKEN WINGS. 


ascending, ever-failing sound made by the complaining 
sea. 

That “something” by the grave of his sister uttered 
no sound ; not one— none at all ! 

A sudden terror seized him. “Felicia!” he cried. 
Nothing stirred. “Felicia! Litzie ! Little woman!” 
Not a movement, not a sound. Then he pushed the little 
gate back and went in. The gravel made a crunching 
noise under his feet. As he came nearer and nearer, and 
the sweet, pure form by the grave became more and more 
distinct, he became more and more possessed by a feel- 
ing of inexpressible sadness and boundless, impending 
misfortune ; there was something in the girl’s frame in- 
dicative of utter failure of power, of a misery that had 
overpowered her. “Litzie!” he murmured, in a hoarse 
whisper. No answer. Then he bent down to her, and 
took hold of her arm, that young arm not long ago so 
round and strong; but the limb almost melted, so to 
speak, in his hand* so utterly had it fallen away; the 
poor flesh hung flabby and loose upon the young bones. 

Compassion, pity, regret, clutched with such* violence 
at Klaus’s heart that he almost lost his senses. The mad- 
ness with which he had lately been contending seemed 
to vanish altogether from his system. At this moment, 
all the anguish he had for some time been laboring under 
appeared.no more than the workings of an over-excited 
fancy or imagination— nay, it wore the appearance of 
something beyond measure ugly and repulsive, and with- 
out any such seriousness of significance as he had thought. 

It had vanished from him as with a flash, and, as it 
seemed to him, forever and entirely ; so completely, in- 
deed, that no effort of his would be able to find a single 
trace of it again. That was gone, and all he now felt 


BROKEN WINGS. 


231 


was only the old, warm, protecting, pure tenderness 
which he felt now spring up in him renewed, and in far 
greater strength than heretofore. 

“Nay, nay, Litzie, my poor little brat!” he whis- 
pered, softly. “For God’s sake, don’t be so silly; come 
home, my darling !” 

He stooped to her and lifted her strongly and firmly 
from the ground. She had become quite light, and the 
poor face was much smaller, and, indeed, fallen in, espe- 
cially about the eyes. 

And these she opened slowly, and gazed at him with 
a fixed look of astonishment, as though it took her long 
to realize the circumstances. “Is it really you, papa, 
you — with me f” She nestled closely to him, as though 
tired out, and leaned her head on his shoulder. 

“Did you not hear me call you, did you not recognize 
my step, you used to so well?” asked he, with tender re- 
proach. 

She sighed deeply. “I did not believe my ears, nor 
my heart ; how could I. For a moment I said to my- 
self that I was dreaming, and, the next, I thought I was 
dead and in heaven. I lay there quite rigid and stiff, 
and could not stir. It was only when I felt your touch 
that I really came to life again !” 

He stroked her cheeks, her hair, fondly, caressingly. 
“My darling!” he whispered tenderly, “my sweet little 
brat !” 

He had forgotten everything ; he had the feeling of 
one liberated from bondage, of being privileged to draw 
breath easily once again; the sort of feeling a man 
might have just out of a strong, dangerous fever, and 
after the phantasmagoria of horrible delirium, not yet 
wholly passed away from recollection. 


232 


BROKEN WINGS. 


“And it was all nothing but an evil dream, it is all 
over. You are fond of me once more— you will always 
be fond of me?” she whispered. 

“I have never ceased to be fond of you!” he assured 
her, “never — it was something quite different; it was 
quite another kind of trouble that was on me.” He 
shuddered in every limb. “Never ask me anything 
about it, never!” 

“Why, how should I? You’ve told me not to,” said 
she simply. “But is it all over now?” She gave him an 
anxious glance. 

“Yes, little woman, it is all over!” Poor Klaus! 
“And now come home, my darling; mamma is expect- 
ing us, and she is anxious about you,” he said, press- 
ing^ . 

“Oh, as long as she knows that I’m with you, she can’t 
be anxious,” Litzie solemnly assured him, “she knows 
well enough that you would not let any harm come to 
me. Do let us remain a little bit, I entreat you, papa— a 
little, little bit, only a moment ; sit down with me on 
the steps of the church, here. It is such a long time since 
we were together, you and I.” 

He did as she asked him, and seated himself by her 
side on the smooth gray stone steps, which projected far 
into the churchyard, and which were flanked on either 
side by a rosebush, one bearing white, the other red 
roses, both in full bloom. 

She sat by his side in complete silence, nestling closely 
in his warm arm, with her head on his shoulder, lapped 
in a wonderful, tired, almost sleepy feeling of being 
wrapped away from all the ills of life and translated to 
a sort of paradise. 

At last she said : “Do you remember— five years ago, 


BROKEN WINGS. 


233 


it was— I was so very, very ill? And there came one 
night when I could neither sit up nor lie down ; I was 
afraid to die and it hurt me to live ; oh, how it hurt me 
to go on living ! And then you came and placed yourself 
on the bed and lifted me up and took me in your arms ; 
and it seemed to me as if the worst of the illness slowly, 
slowly left me. I fell soundly asleep. And when I woke 
up I was all but quite well. And so it is now — just the 
same 1” 

“My darling!” he whispered, and stroked her cheeks, 
then he kissed her. He was no longer afraid of himself, 
all that was over forever ! 

Then, suddenly, quite suddenly, while he was pressing 
his lips upon her closed eyes, his breath almost stopped ; 
he turned giddy. He took his arm from her, rose to his 
feet. “Come home!” he cried, “come!” 

His voice was changed ; he was as pale as death once 
again — and terror, boundless terror and horror, were in 
his eyes. 

She saw it directly. And again she threw her arms 
round him, as if to fling herself between him and all 
this world’s woe and hurt, as she had done on that even- 
ing when, for the first time, she had asked him about the 
cause of his affliction, and entreated him to let her share 
it with him. 

But, this time, he did not thrust her away from him— 
he had not the needful self-restraint. No ! And before 
he could think of what he was about, he clasped her 
closer and closer to him and kissed her with such vio- 
lence as nearly to take away her breath. 

This time it was she who drew back from him. She 
pushed him away with a little cry. 

“Papa, papa, you hurt me !” she exclaimed. 


234 


BROKEN WINGS. 


He came to himself directly. He trembled in every 
limb, and his countenance betrayed such unspeakable 
anguish of soul that Litzie forgot everything else directly. 

“Oh, you poor, poor dear!” she cried. “No, no, you 
must .not look so sadly, you must not ! I’d rather kill 
myself than that! Oh, papa, papa!” and she nestled 
closely to him again. 

The moon had risen over the high roof of the school- 
house, which bounded the churchyard on the east. It 
shone full on the churchyard, on the flowers, and the 
crosses and the graves. The imperfect light till then 
spread over everything now divided itself into spaces of 
higher light and deep shade. 

At the door of the churchyard and standing beside a 
high lilac bush, Klaus espied a female form in a dark 
dress. The moonlight fell full on her gray hair. It was 
Nina! She might have been standing there for some 
time. 

“Do you remember your reading me this winter that 
beautiful legend of poor Henry, that one where the 
young girl makes them cut the heart out of her bosom 
that he may get well again? If I could free you so from 
your grief and trouble, I’d do it gladly, oh, so gladly!” 
she almost whispered. 

Litzie had not observed her mother— her compassionate 
eyes were fastened on Klaus with the expression almost 
of one passing away in death. 

“There is no death that I would not willingly die for 
you !” she said, in the same low tones. 

And he knew well that she spoke the simple truth. 
He remained quite silent for a few moments, quite over- 
come. And, then, looking deeply into her eyes, he mur- 


BROKEN WINGS. 


235 


mured: “If one of the two had to die for the other it 
should be not you, but I.” He drew a deep breath, and 
then, in a quite different voice, his usual everyday voice, 
added: “And now come home. Mamma is there, see; 
she has come to fetch us !” 

They went ; and they were all quite still and quiet, all 
three of them. 

They were in the hall, and at the foot of the staircase, 
and he was about to take leave of her for the night, when 
she said : 

“Oh, papa, I am so terribly tired to-night! When I 
was so ill five years ago, you used to carry me downstairs 
every morning, and upstairs every evening again. And 
every time I used to feel as if an angel were carrying me 
to Paradise. Do carry me upstairs once more, as if I 
were a little child again ! I am scarcely heavier than I 
was then. ’ ’ 

He did so. He carried her, firmly and with sure steps, 
up the stairs. He set her down before the door of her 
chamber. 

Then, in her old childlike way, she placed her hands 
on his shoulders and leaned her head back to be kissed 
good-night. 

He kissed her with all, and only all, the pure fervor of 
the kisses he had given her as a child; and, then, he 
kissed her hand ; which he had never before done. 

“God protect you!” he said. “Never again forget, 
Litzie, that you have always been the greatest joy of my 
life, always the creature whom I have loved better than 
anything in the whole world. Never forget it again for 
a moment!” He looked at her once again, and then 
turned quickly and went down the stairs. She stood 


236 


BROKEN WINGS. 


gazing at him on the threshold of her chamber until he 
disappeared at the bend of the staircase. 

He did not turn round to look again. 


Nina was standing at the foot of the stairs expecting 
him. “Go upstairs,” said he, without looking at her; 
“go upstairs and put her to bed.” 

She went up without a word in reply. A quarter of 
an hour later she came down again. She found him 
waiting for her in the dining-room. He was seated at 
the large dining-table under the hanging lamp, which 
was smoking. Nina turned it higher. He looked up 
and their eyes met. He knew that she had divined his 
secret and that it was not possible to put off longer a 
discussion of the matter and the coming to a clear un- 
derstanding with each other. The only question he put 
to himself was what form that discussion and its issue 
would take, and how Nina would view the misfortune 
that had befallen him. Not, indeed, that his situation 
could be changed any way, for better or worse; but 
he could not help fearing something harsh, something 
that would cut deeply into his flesh, just as a dying per- 
son might fear shrill and piercing sounds, making his 
struggle with death worse for him. 

But no ! At this moment Nina's bearing and conduct 
were exemplary and noble, indeed. She did not think of 
herself a single moment, only of him. With the lamp 
still in her hand she gazed a while upon his features, 
now sharpened and rigid with deep suffering ; and she 


BROKEN WINGS. 


237 


read in them what showed her that he had gone through 
all the tortures of such a struggle as only a truly noble 
man could have undergone. 

Then she went up to him, laid her hand on his head, 
and said, very sadly : “My poor, unhappy Klaus !” That 
was all. 

As we told, earlier, the long, uninterrupted intercourse 
with him had developed everything of good and noble 
that she had in her. Besides, she had never loved him 
• as a woman can love a man, in spite of the warm senti- 
ments of affectionate reverence and gratitude his con- 
duct had inspired her with. It stood her, therefore, now 
in good stead that she never had been actuated by mere 
jealousy or distrust, and could not be, even at this 
juncture. 

All that she felt was compassion, pure, unselfish com- 
passion for him. He saw it, and almost cowered under 
the burden of her excessive goodness, as though he felt 
unworthy of it. And yet he knew that if ever man was 
innocent, whose soul had been tortured day and night 
by an unhallowed yearning, he was that man. 

She let her hand fall slowly from his head to his 
shoulder ; he took it in his and drew it to his lips. 

“My brave, good wife,” he murmured, “God bless 
you!” 

“God’s blessing glances off from me and those I love, 
it would seem,” she said, in a dull, heavy voice'; “and 
who can help us, if He does not?” 

His hands were stretched out before him upon the 
dark oak table ; he clinched his fists and then opened 
them. 

“We must ourselves find a way of help.” 

“But how?” She seated herself at the angle of the 


238 


BROKEN WINGS. 


square table, and so that she could observe his face 
closely as they talked. He did not answer her question. 

Later she told herself that he must already have made 
up his mind during that short silence. But, at that 
moment, she had no foreboding. 

“Nay, something must be done,” she murmured, al- 
most inaudibly; “we cannot go on living like this.” 

“Yes,” he repeated, in a still duller tone, “something 
must be done.” 

“I will go with the little one away to Austria.” 

“She will refuse to go without me!” he replied, and 
shook his head in an inconsolable way. 

“If that is so — if” — Nina passed her hands through her 
gray hair — “I shall have to open her eyes to the facts of 
our position ; yes, even if I have to expose myself en- 
tirely to her. I must open her eyes l” 

“Open her eyes ! To what?” he asked quickly. 

“To the fact that you are not her father,” replied 
Nina, with a groan. 

He gave her a sharp glance. “Never!” he cried, ex- 
citedly ; and then added, a little more quietly : “Besides, 

. what use would it be?” 

“Well, she would, of course, alter her conduct to you, 
she would be more reserved. That would make things 
easier for you.” 

Good, kind, unselfish, Nina certainly had become in 
her life with him ; but of sensitive perception, in the high- 
est meaning of those words, she had gained nothing, nor 
was she capable of doing so. 

“Yes, it would make things easier for me,” he said, 
almost violently, shrugging his shoulders. “But— but 
she!” 


BROKEN WINGS. 


239 


Nina had not thought of that ; there followed a long, 
oppressive pause. The first to speak was Klaus. 

“No I” he said, in a low, sternly repressed tone, look- 
ing a little wildly about him between his words, as 
though he were afraid the child might hear him. “No ; 
Litzie must never know that I am not what she takes me 
for. It would be her death. I know her better than you. 
Perhaps we were wrong to bring her up under that illu- 
sion; but, now that it has gone so far, we must keep 
it up to the end. Promise me, Nina, promise sacredly 
that you will never impart what we have always kept 
hidden from her!” 

He held his hand out to her. She placed hers in his. 

“I promise it you if it is your wish. But, if that is to 
be so, I can see no issue, none. Hnder the circumstances, 
as they stand now, you%annot endure the tortures you 
undergo indefinitely ; sooner or later you will go crazy 
over them, and then — ” She shuddered. 

He gave her a terrible look. “And you fancy that I 
would ever let it come to that?” he asked. 

She did not grasp at all the meaning that lay behind 
his words ; but what she did see was, that there was a 
depth and tenderness in his nature which, after all, she 
had never yet fathomed— which, indeed, she lacked 
length of time to fathom. She cast down her eyes in 
a sort of shame. Suddenly she began to sob : 

“My mother was right!” she cried. “I ought never 
to have married. She always said that misery would 
come of it.” 

“Don’t be foolish, Nina,” he replied, gently; “no 
blame for anything rightly falls on you, none whatever. 
Nay, you have been a good, faithful wife to me for fif- 
teen long years. I can feel nothing but gratitude to you 


240 


BROKEN WINGS. 


for your indefatigable care and kindness. Nobody could 
possibly see that what has befallen would befall. It is 
I who am the only one blamable, that is only too sadly 
and dreadfully certain; and it is incumbent on me, 
therefore, to set things aright as far as may be. But 
we must make it our chief concern to see that the child 
suffers as little as possible ; protect her from all and 
every kind of suffering in this matter I fear we cannot. 
Poor, sweet little rogue!” Be clinched his fist again, 
opened it, and then drew a long, deep sigh. 

“I am tired,” he said, and rose. She followed his ex- 
ample. What more could either of them say? 


Hours followed hours, and Nina that night could not 
close her eyes. The moon shone into her room ; silvery 
gray, its light shimmered through the unfastened cur- 
tains. She was tortured by a horrible unrest. She arose 
once and opened the door of her husband’s room, which 
immediately adjoined hers, and looked in. He lay 
stretched at full length on the bed, with his right arm 
oyer his eyes like a man afraid of the light. 

The room was filled with the clear, sharp moonlight. 
She saw his face quite plainly, all of it not hidden by his 
arm. How handsome and young he still was, she said 
to herself, and what might not life still have had in 
store for him, if the circumstances had only been dif- 
ferent. 

She felt a dreadful tightness at her heart. She ob- 
served that he had not let down the roller-blinds, and 
went to one of the windows to do it for him. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


241 


Then he took his arm from his eyes and said : “Let be, 
Nina ; I don’t want to shut out the light.” 

“But— perhaps you would get to sleep quicker if there 
were not so much light,” said Nina. 

“I don’t think so,” he answered; “besides — ” He 
stopped short. 

She stepped from the window and went up to his bed. 
She stood by his side for a few moments ; she did not 
venture to touch him, but only smoothed his pillow 
gently, and then withdrew, sighing, into her own 
chamber. 

That word “besides,” uttered in that tired voice, that 
single word, the one fragment of an unuttered sentence 
and which seemed to cut off peremptorily all effort to 
give him any sort of ease, that word sounded with a long, 
long, lingering echo in her soul. It was the last word 
she was destined ever to hear from his lips. 

She fell asleep when morning was not far off. She 
fancied, before this, that she heard steps below in the 
hall and at the front door of the house ; but she was then 
neither fully awake nor asleep ; it might be only a dream, 
and she slept on. When she rose, the next day, Klaus 
was already gone. ljje had left a message with the ser- 
vants that he was going for a sail, and he was not to be 
expected back to dinner. 

In these latter days he had gone out nearly every day 
with his boat, there was nothing remarkable in that; 
nevertheless, a chill feeling of dread took possession of 
Nina, and, for a moment, almost convulsed her with 
its anguish. 

Litzie got up quite late in the day. She had slept very 
well ; her step was lighter, her eyes clearer, than they 
had been for a long time when she came down into the 


242 


BROKEN WINGS. 


dining-room where Nina was waiting breakfast for her. 
She had a couple of white roses in her bosom. 

“Been in the garden already, little woman?” asked 
Nina, on whose heart lay an intolerably heavy weight. 

“No,” answered the little one, with a happy smile. 
“Papa hung these roses here on the handle of my door 
before he went out.” 

“How do you know that it was papa?” 

“Because he fastened the flowers with the neckerchief 
which he wore yesterday,” said Litzie. “It is so sweet 
of him to have thought of me,” added she, looking down 
tenderly on the roses. “He didn’t wish to wake me, and 
yet he wanted to leave me some sign of affection before 
going out for his sail. It was from Meta I heard that he 
had gone out on the water. But what is the matter with 
you, mamma? Why, you are as pale as death !” cried 
the child, spring forward in great anxiety. For a mo- 
ment it looked to her as though Nina were going to fall 
from her chair. 

But Nina recovered her self-possession directly. “It 
is nothing,” said she, “a touch of giddiness— it is over 
now,” and she poured out Litzie ’s tea. 

When breakfast was over it occurred to her to ask the 
. people whether Klaus had taken his sailor with him. No ! 
From that moment she gave way to despair. Under pre- 
text of a headache she shut herself up in her room. Lit- 
zie came every now and then to see her ; the girl was full 
of sympathy and much troubled about her mother. 

“Oh, I hope you will be well enough to take tea with 
us when papa comes back, won’t you?” she asked. 

“Yes, yes; little woman.” 

“If the wind is not against him, he should be home by 


BROKEN WINGS. 


243 


six.” chatted on Litzie; “I shall tell them to set the tea 
things in the garden.” 

“Yes, yes, dear child, but leave me now.” 

“Poor mamma!” Litzie kissed her hand and tripped 
off as lightly as a bird. 

The day was exceedingly warm ; about three o’clock a 
strong wind came up and then a storm broke. About five 
it had cleared up, and the sun shone brightly again. The 
sunlight was brilliant on the damp leaves. The shower 
had beaten down only a very few of the larger flowers, 
and everything seemed the more beautiful after the brief 
storm. 

Nina remained alone in her room, with her hands 
folded in her lap. Her heart grew heavier and heavier 
every hour. It seemed to her as if it was actually grow- 
ing larger and larger in her bosom. The soft perfume 
of the summer, freshened and sharpened by the shower, 
came up to her through the open windows, and she heard 
the child humming gayly ; the young creature was joy- 
ous and happy now, as she had not been for many days. 

Litzie made all sorts of little affectionate preparations 
for papa. She helped Meta to set the table for him, and 
decked it with roses ; she plucked a big dish of straw- 
berries in the garden, and ordered some whipped cream ; 
she procured some fresh black bread, such as they usu- 
ally eat.in farpihouses, knowing that he was fond of it; 
he would surely have a good appetite to-day when he 
returned from the sea. 

When it was near six in the evening she ran down to 
the beach to the spot where he would be sure to put in. 

Nina heard her hurrying off. The unhappy woman’s 
hands were cold and her temples were bathed in sweat ; 
she drew back her hair, which was streaming over her 


244 BROKEN WINGS. 

forehead, and she felt for a moment so overwhelmed 
with despair that she would fain have flung herself 
through the window. 

Another hour passed, and he was still absent. From 
the moment of her waking that day she had been telling 
herself that she was quite without hope ; but for all that 
a storm of feeling was raging within her which was fed 
in some measure by some hope which lay beyond her 
consciousness. She listened and listened ; she placed her 
hand upon her heart, which was beating violently and so 
audibly that it prevented her hearing what there might, 
peradventure, be to hear ; but there was nothing, noth- 
ing. 

Yet another hour passed. She could not endure being 
alone any longer in her room, and went down to join 
Litzie on the beach. What would she not have given if 
the two could have come to meet her, Litzie hanging joy- 
ously on his arm and prattling as of yore ! And yet — 
yet . . . She went down. There was Litzie, standing on 
the stairs which led down from the plateau above to the 
beach. She was pale as death; she was shading her 
eyes with her hand and gazing with all her might into 
the far distance. 

“I cannot conceive how it is papa remains away so 
long,” she murmured, as she heard Nina coming; “the 
others are all at home already — the people who went out 
this morning the same time that he did. He must have 
been driven in some other direction, he must have landed 
somewhere else.” 

“Yes, Litzie, I think so, too,” said Nina, in a dull voice ; 
* ‘he must have landed at another point of the coast, other- 
wise he would have been at home long ago.” Her voice 
trembled. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


245 


"Mother, you are alarmed!” cried Litzie, excitedly, 
almost angrily. She would not allow herself to think 
that there was any cause for alarm. 

"Alarmed — alarmed!” murmured Nina, collecting 
herself with difficulty. "Any one who has suffered as 
I have done cannot help all sorts of fancies, possible and 
impossible, coming up in her head ; but it is certainly 
strange that he is not here all this time.” 

"Strange — strange!” ejaculated Litzie, "why, such 
things are constantly happening ! He may have got out 
of his course, during the storm. When a storm comes 
up it is difficult for a person to see to the sails and steer, 
too, when he is all by himself. But he is so strong and 
so skillful. It is just simply this : he has landed at an- 
other point on the coast, that’s certain. Mother, mother 
dear, don’t look so sadly, don’t ! Nothing can have hap- 
pened to him. The little bit of a storm is really not 
worth talking about ; yes, he has landed somewhere else ! 
But as he knows how silly we are, and that we get fright- 
ened when there’s no reason whatever for it, he will be 
sure to take a carriage and get over to us as soon as he 
possibly can. And then — then, shan’t we be delighted 
to have him back, and won’t we laugh and laugh over 
our silly fright? Yes; for it really is quite irrational to 
give way to alarm like that. He’ll scold us in his dear, 
tender way. He’ll be here in less than half an hour, 
now ; it must be so, I’m sure it must be so — isn’t it so, 
mamma, isn’t it so, isn’t it so?” A smile wherein there 
seemed something like a touch of madness quivered about 
her mouth and eyes as she spoke. Then, all of a sudden, 
she covered her eyes with her hands and broke out into a 
wild, convulsive, choking fit of sobbing. 

"Come home, come,” said Nina, quite overcome; 


246 


BROKEN WINGS. 


“come, or we shall be too late for him. You are quite 
right, he must be coming home by land.” 


That night Litzie did not go to bed at all. She stood 
at her window till the twilight was displaced by the 
moonlight, and was there still when the moonshine gave 
way to the mighty light of the sun. 

And she kept looking, looking intently along the road 
by which he must come, must surely come ! 


And at last he did come — two days later — and he came 
by land, as Litzie had expected. He came in a heavy 
farm wagon ! 

Yes ; he had lost his bearings — and had landed on an- 
other part of the coast, indeed ; on quite another coast. 


They laid him on his bed; they folded his hands over 
his breast, lighted two wax candles at the head of his 
couch, with a crucifix between them 1 
Litzie was not in the house when they brought him ; 
she was in the village. Old seafaring people, who suf- 


BROKEN WINGS. 


247 


fered with her in that mortal anguish of her soul, had 
been telling her in this interval all sorts of stories about 
skippers who had been away for a week, fourteen days, 
and had then come home as healthy and jolly as anybody 
need wish to be. It all depended upon the question 
whether you had lost' your bearings or not ; if you did 
there was no knowing where you’d be driven. 

She went from one of them to another, to have these 
stories told to her, and tried to lull her desperate anxiety 
in listening to all sorts of legends of the sea. 

When she reached home Nina met her in the hall. Her 
mother’s eyes were fixed in that hard, stony glare the 
stillness of which is produced only by the death of all 
hope and the stoppage of the movement which goes with 
hope. 

“Papa is come?” asked Litzie, sharply. 

4 ‘Oh, little woman ! ’ ’ Nina tried to take the child in her 
arms and prepare her. There was no room for it — Litzie 
had at once divined the truth — she had seen it with a flash. 
She put Nina away from her and without another word 
went up to Klaus Olden’s chamber. “Papa !” she shrieked ; 
and then there was dead silence. She went up to the 
bed where he lay. Yes, it was he ! It was his corpse ; 
it had been cast up at a village miles away from Elm- 
stadt. One of his former pupils had recognized him. 
The daylight had been shut out of the room as far as 
possible ; the red flame of the wax candles was flicker- 
ing by his bed. But, uncertain as was the light, she saw 
him quite clearly, features and all. He was not much 
disfigured ; the body was only slightly swollen, and the 
face, in consequence, pale with more than the usual pal- 
lor of death. 

And that beautiful face wore an expression of fatigue 


248 


BROKEN WINGS. 


which it had never known in life ; but it had lost noth- 
ing of that stamp and expression of exquisite kindness 
and goodness which had been his chief characteristic 
while he was still on earth. 

With trembling hands Litzie pushed aside the small 
table with the wax candles and the crucifix, and kneel- 
ing down by the bed, laid her head by his on the pillow 
so that her cheek touched his. The coldness of death 
pierced her to the very marrow ; but she did not stir ; 
she remained in that position, beside him, quite motion- 
less. 

Nina had not gone in with her, but remained at the 
door. She did not venture to. disturb those two unhappy 
ones in this their last interview on earth. Her knees 
gave way with her and she sank cowering to the ground 
at the threshold. Her thoughts recurred to that terrible 
night at St. Eusebe, when she had once before knelt at 
a threshold which she did not dare to pass, while her 
child was struggling with death on the other side of the 
door. At that time she was not permitted to go to her 
child’s assistance at all ; she had been thrust aside like a 
mere stranger ; and now ... 1 

And the truth was, the sad, sad truth, as she saw it 
now, that in her child’s heart she had a ways been a 
stranger, always ! 

She waited and waited for long hours. At last she 
opened the door. There, kneeling by the bed, with her 
cheek touching the dead man’s cheek, was Litzie, sunk 
in deep sleep. It was her first sleep since the moment 
that Klaus had left the house. 

There was no help for it ; she must be roused out of 
that sleep ; and none but Nina might do it ! 


BROKEN WINGS. 


249 


How the catastrophe came about no one could exactly 
make out. Everybody told, again and again, how often 
they had warned the gentleman against putting out to 
sea all by himself. As to the true state of the case, of 
that nobody had even the slightest suspicion. It was 
only Nina who knew why and how it was that he had 
returned alive no more to his home, and that this had 
happened, beyond doubt, of his set purpose. 

They did not keep the poor corpse long. Old, experi- 
enced seafaring people declared that it was wrong to do 
so, however beautiful and unaltered a corpse might look 
in those first hours ; the flesh might all of a sudden fall 
away from the bones. That did happen, sometimes, 
with drowned people. 

The coffin was made and ready that very night, and 
next morning they buried him in the same spot where 
Litzie had waited for him so late that other sad night — 
in the grave of his favorite sister. 

It was a wonderful June day. A heavy life-giving 
shower had fallen on the earth a little while before the 
funeral bell began to toll. But, just at the moment 
when his pupils — six there were of them— who had car- 
ried him out of the house, put down the bier by the open 
grave, the sky began to clear and to be filled with white 
and blue clouds. 

All the cottages and houses in Elmstadt were emptied, 
that day, of their dwellers. Every soul of them— and 
there were many who were barely able to stand — was in 
the churchyard. And they stood round the open grave 
with folded hands. The vegetation around them had 
been refreshed by the rain, and the breeze that played 


250 


BROKEN WINGS 


about them was laden with sweet odors. Only, from 
the grave there ascended a cold and musty smell; but 
in the small dark pool of water which had gathered at 
its bottom there was seen the reflection of the bright 
blue sky. 

Nina had tried to prevent Litzie from being present 
at the burial ; but Litzie had made no reply at all to her 
mother’s remonstrances, not one word. And there she 
stood by the grave, between her mother and the minis- 
ter, pale and with a fixed countenance ; while the bells 
in the old churchyard swung one way and another as 
though they would never stop. 

Yes ; the girl’s glance was fixed and her eyes glassy, 
as though she saw nothing of what was round her — and 
yet she saw it all only too well — the priest — the weeping 
people— the black, yawning grave, with the reflection of 
the sky in its depths, and there, upon the heap of earth, 
the small, child’s coffin in which they had collected and 
buried his sister’s bones, and on the bier beside it the 
large, long coffin. 

Everybody there was weeping, she only wept not ; but 
such sadness as was on her face no one there had ever yet 
seen or did ever see— pale, rigid, helpless, with grief in 
every limb and fiber, there she stood in an old black dress 
of her mother’s which had been hastily altered over night 
to fit her, there being no time to procure regular mourn- 
ing. She seemed all but dead to what was going on, and 
had to have pointed out to her whatever it was necessary 
for her to follow. All eyes were fastened upon her. And 
the people nearly forgot their own sorrow for the dead 
in their compassion for his surviving child. They could 
not help drawing each other’s attention to her. His little 
daughter ! His little daughter I 


BROKEN WINGS. 


251 


The minister got through the service as quickly as he 
possibly could on her account. He delivered a short and 
very beautiful discourse in which he laid special stress 
on the noble qualities of the dead man. Then, there was 
one more “Our Father,” and then — then it came — the mo- 
ment when the heavy coffin was lowered into the grave 
on the thick cord, which made a frightfully strident noise 
as it went down. Litzie bent over it, gazing intently with 
parted lips ; she stretched out her trembling arms to it 
as it descended. 

It was over, the coffin was below. The priest came 
close to her and told her to strew the first handful of 
earth upon the coffin. She did not at first understand 
him ; and then she stooped with difficulty— she took a 
quite small handful of earth— bent forward— and then, 
with her mouth still shut, she uttered a weak, pitiful cry, 
tottered and fell ! The priest caught her in his arms, 
otherwise she would have fallen into the grave. 


252 


BROKEN WINGS. 



The crowd dispersed, and the sun now shone out in all 
its fullness. The raindrops were still hanging on all the 
leaves and bushes, and the strong rays, falling on the 
wet vegetation, were broken up into fragments of light. 
It seemed as though all earth were shedding tears for 
him; but also that, through these tears, there pierced 
something of the light and joy belonging to regions be- 
yond this earth. 

And it was so with the human beings there. They be- 
gan to tell one another about him who had left them ; 
what a noble creature he was; how much good, how 
many kind things he had done to them, for them ! 

Only one young creature was there for whom, at that 
moment, there was no light at all, in whom all, all was 
dark — Litzie. 

They had had to carry her home, still quite uncon- 
scious, from the churchyard. 


9 


At first they feared for her life— and then they were 
afraid that her reason was irrevocably shattered. She 
lay two, three weeks in her bed, all strength gone, with- 
out taking notice of anything or anybody. She did not 
shed a tear, and she refused all food. Nina exhausted 
herself in caresses and words of the utmost tenderness, 
but her remonstrances were quite without effect. The 
girl lay there all the time quite white, quite still, and 


BROKEN WINGS. 


253 


seemed not to take into account the difference between 
day or night. 

The first person who succeeded in bringing a little 
light into her eyes was the priest. He entreated Nina’s 
permission to come and see the girl. And, after his first 
visit, he came every day. 

He had been a close friend of the dead man. At first 
he spoke to the young creature about him and scarcely 
at all of anything else. His first step was thus, by giv- 
ing to her grief the aid of the words which she had not 
the power to bring to her own lips, to induce in her, with 
gradual tenderness, a frame of mind in which she might 
be capable of receiving the consolations of faith; those 
consolations which begin when human wisdom has come 
to the end of its tether. 

At first she lay there, while he was speaking, in an 
apathy and remoteness of feeling almost as complete as 
she had shown when Nina had plied her with consola- 
tions and entreaties to take food. But, after a while, 
she listened, at first with interest, and presently with 
avidity. He spoke of a resurrection from the grave, of 
a life in the hereafter. And, indeed, if she was not to 
derive support from such truths as those, were, under 
heaven, was she to find it now ? 

She had always, of course, like other children properly 
trained in religion, believed in the immortality of the 
soul. And her belief now very speedily became some- 
thing much more than a dogma. It took decided shape 
and clear outlines, developed to something like what 
people call hallucination. Be that so or not, this fixing 
of the idea or belief of immortality which now went on 
in her mind, helped materially to strengthen her and 
put her on the road to something like recovery. 


254 


BROKEN WINGS. 


And was all this really no more than illusion? Or 
was the truth this, that her organs of perception had 
been rendered so subtle and acute by pain that she had 
attained a power of presentiment and forecast beyond 
what is possible to robust, everyday strength? 

Which of us can say anything decisive upon such a 
point as this? Providence has quite evidently not pur- 
posed that the veil which hides the great secret should 
be lifted by human hands ; for, were this great mystery 
and enigma to be once definitively solved, that doubt and 
restlessness, which are the great spur of humanity in the 
paths of progress and development, would disappear from 
the world. 

The day came when Litzie got out of her bed, though 
no one had at that moment advised or suggested it. And 
when she, at last, went out of doors, her first little walk 
was to the grave in the churchyard. While she was still 
so weak that she could scarcely lift her head from the 
pillow she had implored the priest not to allow the 
smooth, heavy gravestone to be laid upon the grave 
again. She had a sort of feeling that it might lie too 
heavily on him who slept there. The priest had promised 
compliance with this strange, sad desire of hers. And 
now she went to visit that grave, and crouched down 
beside the bare mound of earth, and nestled close to it 
and leaned her head against it as though it were a living 
human creature, and passed her thin, wasted hands over 
it, and murmured all sorts of tender little words to this 
cold, unanswering earth. 

Nina had slipped out after her. She stood still at the 
little white gate of the churchyard, and gazed for a long 
time at her child. At last she called tenderly to Litzie 
and told her to come home. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


255 


Litzie lifted her little head with difficulty and began 
to sob with sudden violence. It was the first time since 
she had acquired the certain knowledge of Klaus Olden’s 
fate that she had been able to shed tears. 

From that day a remarkable improvement in her health 
set in. She soon got up as regularly as the others, came 
to table at meal times, and showed herself, every now 
and then, particular as to her food ; and her indifference 
to what she ate soon quite disappeared. 

Her whole thought turned exclusively upon the dead 
man. She spent .her time all but wholly in the church- 
yard, and her principal occupation was to decorate the 
grave and tend the flowers which she planted there. 

If the weather was so bad that she was obliged to stay 
indoors she generally stayed all the time in Klaus’s cham- 
ber ; she handled all the objects in it with as much ten- 
derness as if they had been living creatures ; she read 
again the books which they had read together and fre- 
quently pressed a kiss upon passages that he had marked. 
The sharp pangs of her anguish began to subside, and in 
their place came a gentle melancholy; the tortures of 
longing for the vanished presence slowly transformed 
themselves into the tranquillity that goes with the mere 
dreams of things that cannot be. 

At first Nina’s despair was so great that she could quite 
enter into and share that of her child. But, little by 
little, she forgot her grief for the departed in anxiety 
for the creature that was left to her. And, as week fol- 
lowed week and Litzie ’s whole life, in feeling and thought, 
seemed to be given exclusively to a grave and a memory, 
something like jealousy sprang up in the mother’s 
heart, and she began almost to grudge the dead this 
enthusiastic and absorbing love of her child. After 


256 


BROKEN WINGS. 


all, Litzie was her child, and he was a stranger to her 
blood. 

But, through all this, she waited on her girl, tended 
her, caressed her, spoiled her, from morning to night. 
And Litzie was fully sensible of her kindness, was grate- 
ful to her for it, and repaid her mother with loving at- 
tentions. But never, never, did she come to nestle 
against her mother’s shoulder with the same tired ten- 
derness with which she clung to that hillock of the dead, 
after sunset, in the gray twilight time when neither light 
nor shadow was there and the perfume of the roses was 
at its strongest. That was the hour when it had been his 
wont to go and seek her and bring her home with him. 

But Nina’s heart suffered keen pangs, not unmingle’d 
with bitterness, when she went to the gate of the church- 
yard and watched from that spot her child’s proceedings. 
And, not infrequently, she had to put some constraint on 
herself not to call out to the girl with some sharp words 
of jealous remonstrance. Her poor, pale, still so weak 
Litzie! Whom any hard unsparing words might as 
easily have felled to the ground as a bludgeon ! 

She conquered herself every time when this inclina- 
tion seized her ; but she became almost crazy with the 
effort. And the consequence was that in her feeling 
and dealing with the child there ensued a failure, in some 
degree, of that soft and gentle tenderness which was so 
necessary to the poor girl, and thus her daughter, instead 
of coming nearer and nearer to her, as she so longed, be- 
came gradually estranged rather from her. 

Nina took counsel with the priest and the physician 
about the matter, complaining bitterly of this absorp- 
tion of the girl in “crazy fancies” which extinguished 
in her all interest in the actualities and realities of life. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


257 


But physician and clergyman were both of one mind ; 
and that was that no attempt should be made to bring 
about any alteration in the present state of things. If 
the poor young stricken soul were beginning to weave 
visions, these were a consolation which should be care- 
fully left alone ; it was too much to expect that the girl, 
with her temperament and character, could or would, 
for the present, be satisfied now with the dreadful dry 
realities of the world and her bereavement ; these might 
be fatal to her if she grasped them fully. 

Nina was, therefore, obliged to let things take their 
own course. But the bitterness in her heart did not sub- 
side ; on the contrary it grew greater and greater ; until 
the jealousy within her out-topped her love. 

Was she always to hold no more than the second place 
in her child’s heart? 


» 

Meantime, letters had arrived from Austria, filled with 
warmest sympathy, from all her nearest relatives, sister 
and both brothers. The last to reach her was one from 
her mother. 

When this anxiously expected letter did come it was 
stained with tears, its writing showed that the hand had 
trembled ; and its terms showed that the writer’s mind 
had been not a yttle perplexed. The old woman spoke 
of the dead man with a strange mixture of grief and en- 
thusiasm, and her sympathy with her daughter was deep 
and sincere. Nevertheless, there was something in it 


258 


BROKEN WINGS. 


forced and unnatural; the words “God help you” oc- 
curred a little too frequently, and several passages in the 
letter were struck out. The letter ended with a post- 
script in which the old woman begged her daughter, 
particularly, to acquaint her precisely and fully with 
all the details connected with the death of her dear son- 
in-law. 

Nina could not but feel that her mother had seen, 
more or less deeply, into the real state of the case, that, 
at the least, she suspected that Klaus’s death was not 
involuntary; but she felt perfect assurance that the 
baroness would never allow a single word to pass her lips 
to anybody about her conjectures. 

This letter was followed by others still warmer in their 
* tenor and even more sympathetic, in which the mother 
and all her children begged Nina, in the most pressing 
terms, to come to Austria with her young daughter. 
They urged upon her that both of them would much 
more quickly get over the worst of their grief in Nina’s 
old home : Nina because it was her. home, and Litzie 
under the influence of the new surroundings. 

Nina’s craving for her mother’s roof and her family 
became so great after this that there was hardly room 
for any other feeling, and it was all the stronger because 
of her passionate desire to get Litzie away from the 
grave which so absorbed the girl’s every faculty. 

When Nina broached the plan of the journey to her 
for the first time, the child began to tremble so violently 
and then sob so convulsively that Nina’s heart was torn. 

Her jealous feeling disappeared wholly , for the mo- 
ment, in compassionate tenderness. She took the young 
creature on her lap. Alas! how light, how painfully 
light was the young frame not long since so plump and 


BROKEN WINGS. 


259 . 


full, so overflowing with youthful vigor. Nina kissed 
her, stroked her face, and for a little while behaved with 
all that softness and tenderness which had made the dead 
man so irresistible. And for the first time she felt round 
her neck the lean arms, and the small cheek resting on 
her shoulder, with all the self-forgetting, appealing, 
childish tenderness which had been so long and so vain- 
ly craved for. 

This one moment was the most happy and blessed of her 
whole life. And it was to stand alone. Once only, that 
once, was she thus to know the fullness of maternal joy. 

From that hour the mother’s whole being became pos- 
sessed exclusively by the craving for predominance in 
her child’s affections. She had felt at last how great 
was the measure of tenderness in the young creature’s 
soul; and she could not now forego it; nay, desired it 
altogether for herself. 

She asked the physician whether he thought the jour- 
ney to Austria advisable for Litzie. His view was that 
it depended upon circumstances. If the girl could be 
induced to consent to it without any injurious pressure, 
he thought that so complete a change of air and scene 
would be beneficial. But, in her present sensitive condi- 
tion, any sort of constraint would have to be carefully 
avoided, or the consequences might be serious indeed. 

From that moment Nina set in motion all her resources 
of persuasion, direct and indirect, to bring Litzie to con- 
sent to the expedition; and these resources were by no 
means inconsiderable at a pinch. Nina was not without 
her skill, not always the most straightforward, either, 
in getting her own way. And she showed her “tact,” 
such as it was, in the pursuit of her purpose, by appeal- 
ing to Litzie’s sense of obedience to the wishes of the 


260 


BROKEN WINGS. 


dead man, the memory of whom she, all the time, longed 
to expel from her child’s heart. 

“It was only for a few weeks she wanted Litzie to leave 
Elmstadt,” she coaxed, “only to get up a little of her 
poor strength. There was nothing papa would have 
wished more. It was very small and foolish to imagine 
that the dead could not be just as near to us anywhere 
as at the spot where they were buried. The soul was 
not so bound, but could hover about us, be with us, 
everywhere,” and so forth. 

She so urged and urged the child that, at last, she ex- 
torted Litzie ’s consent. And the journey to Austria was 
fixed for the end of August. 


The hour of departure was nearly at hand. Nina had 
still some preparations to make, and meditated a shop- 
ping expedition to Hamburg. But the idea of leaving 
Litzie by herself for a whole day made her terribly nerv- 
ous, and she felt she could not do it. She would have 
begged the priest to keej) his eye on the girl, but, at this 
juncture he happened to be from home and was not to 
return for some little time. She finally determined to 
take Litzie with her. 

The evening before this projected excursion Litzie 
stayed beside the beloved grave somewhat longer than 
usual. The night which followed was close and sultry. 
Litzie slept now in her mother’s room. Suddenly, some 


BROKEN WINGS. 


261 


time about midnight, Nina was awakened by a slight 
rustling noise. She sat up and saw that Litzie had got 
out of bed and was standing by the window which looked 
upon the church yard across the road. The girl had drawn 
the blind partially aside and was looking fixedly. 

“Litzie! what is the matter with you? what are you 
doing there!” asked Nina, alarmed. She sprang out of 
bed and flung her arms round the girl’s wasted form. 

“Did you not hear anything, mamma?” asked Litzie, 
in a bewildered sort of way. 

“No; what should I hear?” 

“Papa called me!” said Litzie, with solemnity; and 
her large eyes shone in the half darkness as though filled 
with supernatural light. 

“Oh, my child ! my child! what fancies are these?” 
said her mother, anxiously, stroking the girl’s hair and 
trying to soothe her. 

“Oh, no !” replied Litzie, shaking her head. “I heard 
it quite plainly, quite; it was his voice — ‘Felicia — Litzie 
—little woman !’ ” 

“Come, my darling ! Come and lie down !” entreated 
Nina. 

Litzie sighed deeply and, turning slowly, let her mother 
lead her back to her little bed. Nina seated herself by 
the child’s bed as though to ward off all inroads of ghost- 
ly influence, and took the little cold hands in hers. 

“This was the way it happened,” said Litzie, in a low 
voice. “I had dreamed a frightful dream— I had lost my 
way and came to a strange churchyard, quite strange, 
which I had never seen ; and there was I wandering 
about among nothing but coffins and graves which had 
just been violently disturbed; and, out of the coffins 
came corpses that stretched their cold, damp hands out 


262 


BROKEN WINGS. 


to me. Oh ! I was nearly strangled with terror and hor- 
ror ! Then, all of a sudden, I heard papa’s voice — ‘Felicia 
— Litzie — little woman !’ And all my terror vanished at 
once; I found myself at home, here, directly, and he 
was stretching his arms out to me. Oh, mother ! 
mother ! how can I describe my feelings when he took 
me in them and clasped me to his heart, the joy, the rap- 
ture? But it was only for a single instant, and then I 
awoke. Oh, how dreadful it was to wake ! It seemed 
to me as though my heart was going to break again. 
Then — I heard it again, plainly, quite plainly, and this 
time it came from the churchyard — ‘Felicia — Litzie — 
little woman!’ Then I sprang out of bed and looked 
out. He was not there, but the moonlight fell clear 
upon the white cross at the head of his grave, and it 
seemed to me that I could read the inscription : ‘Be not 
afraid, for 1 have redeemed thee ; 1 have called thee by 
thy name — thou art Mine ! * ” 

She stopped short ; then, after a little while, she with- 
drew her small, cold hands from her mother’s, folded 
them and said, in a low tone, almost as if in prayer : 
“Yes, he has called me by name ; I am his !” 

“Child! child! you have been dreaming!” said her 
mother, much disturbed. 

“Oh, no— oh, no, mamma!” Litzie shook her head. 
“He called me. I always used to say to him that if he 
died before me I should be sure to hear his voice over 
the chasm that separates us. He called me !” And then 
she said once again, in scarcely audible tones : “I am 
his!” And then she slept. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


263 


When she awoke she felt herself much better than be- 
fore. All her little things were ready, packed by her 
mother, who dressed her with the most tender, loving 
care. Litzie let her mother do as she pleased, paying 
scarcely any attention to what went on around her. Her 
eyes had a strange, unearthly look, and seemed fixed 
upon something far, far away. At the last moment she 
evinced a painful repugnance to the journey ; she lifted 
up her hands and entreated to be allowed to remain at 
home. But, after that episode of the previous night, 
Nina was less than ever inclined to leave the child by 
herself. 

The unhappy girl had never been disposed to set her- 
self obstinately against her mother’s desires, and even had 
she been, she had no strength now for such a struggle. 
She gave way in a patient, melancholy manner and 
drove with her mother to the station. It took them about 
an hour to reach it, and the road went through meadow- 
land and cornfields. The harvest was ready for the 
sickle. Nina ordered the carriage to be there at a cer- 
tain hour to fetch them back ; then they entered the train. 

It was about eleven in the forenoon when they reached 
Hamburg. At the station they were assailed by an un- 
pleasant odor of carbolic and phenic acid; nay, more 
than unpleasant, overpowering, repulsive. All the people 
seemed unusually depressed. A porter called out to 
another, “Three hundred and fifty I” Another corrected 
him : “It’s four hundred and fifty by this time !” And 
he spat, shook himself, and stepped up to the drinking- 
bar. 


264 


BROKEN WINGS. 


Nina paid no attention to this ; it did not occur to her 
at the moment that the matter was of any consequence. 
For weeks she had not touched a newspaper ; she had no 
idea what they were talking about. A little later, when 
the words recurred to her, she saw their frightful sig- 
nificance. 

To spare Litzie all possible fatigue she took a carriage 
at once and drove with her to the Elster Pavilion, where 
she had a cup of warm bouillon served to Litzie. It 
struck her that her little order occasioned some remark, 
and also that people seemed not a little surprised to see 
a stranger. But this was fully accounted for, she thought, 
by the lateness of the season, all the large cities being 
nearly empty in these advanced summer months. Then 
she went with Litzie, on foot, to make a few pur- 
chases. 

In Elmstadt it had been merely warm ; here in Ham- 
burg the heat was oppressive almost to torture, and, to 
make matters worse, there was that pestiferous stench 
of carbolic acid and phenic acid. Nina’s head began to 
ache directly, and she asked Litzie with no small anxiety 
whether she did not feel unwell. 

But Litzie shook her head, and walked by her mother’s 
side, very still and pale, and made no complaint. 

The town seemed as though its whole population had 
died out, so solitary was it ; Nina, therefore, was all the 
more struck by the fact of twenty people or so all run- 
ning with one accord, a little way off, into the middle of 
the street ; she was on the point of entering a shoemaker’s 
shop with Litzie. Two of the shop-girls stood in the 
doorway reaching out as far as possible to look, pale as 
death and with every sign of terror on their faces. When 
Nina asked them what could be the reason for people run- 


BROKEN WINGS. 


265 


ning together like that, they made no answer at first ; and, 
when Nina repeated her question, they glanced signifi- 
cantly at each other and said that it couldn’t be anything 
of importance — perhaps a dog had been run over. And 
then they went back into the shop to serve her. 

Litzie uttered not a word of complaint, but became 
paler and paler, so Nina took her to the Hotel d’ Europe 
to have some dinner. The hotel was entirely empty. 
The waiters seemed just as much astonished to see the 
two ladies as the people in the Elster Pavilion had 
been. 

Quite a long time passed before the simple meal that 
Nina ordered came up. When they had nearly finished 
it they asked for something iced, ice-cream, or waterice, 
for dessert. The waiters stared at one another and whis- 
pered to one another. 

They were presently left to themselves. Nina’s nerves 
were set on edge by the heat, and her head ached badly. 
A sense of morbid, nervous irritability came over her 
and she felt it quite difficult to command herself. Litzie 
had thawed a little, poor child, during their repast, but 
this had no effect in dispelling the ill-humor, or nervous 
excitement her mother labored under ; on the contrary, 
her disquietude was augmented by the fact that Litzie 
spoke all the time of nothing except their lost one. Yes, 
it was so. Excited by their present surroundings, in 
which everything brought up so vividly the memory of 
the dead man, the poor, quiet, pale creature began to 
speak with something of her former childish freedom, 
almost, it might be said, to chat. She told Nina all 
about that brief stay of hers with her papa in Ham- 
burg, of his untiring kindness and anxious care of her, 
and what he had said when this thing and that took 


266 


BROKEN WINGS. 


place. But when she noticed that Nina remained quite 
dumb through all this, she took her mother by the hand 
in her sweetest way and said : 

“You must not think me ungrateful for what you do 
for me, because I cannot take my thoughts away from 
him. Oh, indeed, indeed, I cannot tell you all I feel at 
your kindness, your great kindness ! Never, never for 
one moment, have you made me feel that I am not your 
real daughter!” 

Then Nina’s eyes flashed fire. Her jealous feelings 
blazed up and such intelligence as she possessed ceased 
altogether to act. 

“And whose child should you be, I should like to 
know, if not mine?” she exclaimed. 

“Well, I know that I am papa’s daughter; but, as to 
who my own real mother was, I don’t know anything 
at all; I never ventured to put a question to him about 
it, for the subject seemed to give him such pain,” said 
Litzie. Nina’s roughness had hurt her. “But that you 
are not my own mother I have known for a long time.” 

“I am your mother !” cried Nina, in extreme exaspera- 
tion ; “it was he who was not your father !” 

Hardly had th : words escaped her lips when she would 
have given her 1L 3 to recall them. She remembered her 
last conversation with Klaus and the solemn promise she 
had made him nr~:r to allow Litzie to know the real 
truth. It was too late \ 

Litzie had recoiled as though she had received a blow 
on the head. Pale enough she had been before that ; but 
now her face was of an ashen hue, nearly tinged with 
green. 

“Not my father?” she said, in a low, hoarse voice; 


BROKEN WINGS. 


267 


“not my father ! Not he! Some one else? But — but — 
he loved me so dearly, he did, he did ; that very last night 
when he kissed me good-night at my door for the last 
time, he told me never to forget that I had been the dear- 
est thing in the whole world to him ! Not my father?” 

Nina came closer to the child. “Don’t brood over Vt, 
Litzie; don’t let yourself brood over it!” she said, insist- 
ently. “It surely does not matter much whether he was 
your real father or not. You were just as dear to him 
as if you had been his own child, and it was much his 
wish that you should never learn that he was not your 
father.” 

“Then why did you tell me about it?” asked Litzie, 
giving her mother a dark, almost hostile look. 

“Oh, dear me ! it slipped from me — but it is of no con- 
sequence, none at all !” 

“Of no consequence!” murmured Litzie; her eyes be- 
came almost fixed, and she sunk into deep thought. 

At that moment the waiter came in, and went hast ily 
up to the window close to which the two were seated. 
He let the blind down. Nina looked up. Something 
drove quickly by the window — a something black, the 
outlines of which she had not time to make out, glided 
rapidly past ; and then there was heard in the street the 
noise of stifled human voices, as though some calamity 
had just befallen. 

“What was that?” asked Nina. 

“Oh, nothing!” said the waiter, indifferently; “the 
sun shone in too strongly.” 

Nina was too much occupied with Litzie to press him 
with any further question. 

But, as to what passed within Litzie ’s soul in that hour 


268 


BROKEN WINGS. 


which followed, never did the mother learn anything. 
Not one word about it did Litzie utter ; she kept absolute 
silence. 

Nina had yet one more little commission to execute. 
They went out again, from the comparatively cool din- 
ing-room of the hotel, into the oppressive heat, the re- 
pulsive atmosphere laden with carbolic odor. 

Nina thought she knew her way perfectly, but, all of 
a sudden, saw that she had lost it. She could not find 
the shop she was looking for. 

Litzie glided on by her side with those strangely fixed 
eyes, utterly lost in her reflections: and a frightful 
thought went through the mother’s soul. Could it be 
possible that the child might put things together and 
conjecture what it was that had driven Klaus to death? 

Suddenly Litzie began to drag her feet. 

“Are you very tired?” said Nina, in great anxiety. 

“I am quite giddy,” said Litzie, in a dull voice. 

“My poor darling — wait, go into some shop, and I’ll go 
and fetch a carriage, ” said Nina. But she looked round 
in all directions and could not see any shop ; they had 
strayed into a very quiet street— in fact, right into the 
middle of the quarter where the picturesque Hogarthian 
architecture prevailed. All the exteriors there were as 
clean as possible ; they wore a look of kindly invitation 
about them, were quite charming. There was a cool- 
looking entry or hall close by which opened on to the 
street. 

“Here, sit down here on the step a moment,” said Nina ; 
“I’ll come directly with the carriage to fetch you. There, 
sit down on my shawl.” She spread the black shawl for 
the girl to sit on, kissed her, and hastened away. 

It took sadly long for her to find a carriage— it 


BROKEN WINGS. 


269 


seemed, almost, as though not a vehicle of any kind were 
to be found in Hamburg. She stopped for a few mo- 
ments to buy a pineapple for Litzie ; it was her favorite 
fruit. 

At last she found a carriage-stand. The first man she 
went up to, when she mentioned the street, the name of 
which she had as carefully as possible impressed upon 
her recollection, flatly refused to drive her there, de- 
claring that he was engaged. At last she did find one 
who drove her where she ordered. 

“That is the house !” she cried. 

He stopped ; she sprang out. 

“Litzie !” 

Litzie was gone. 

She became rigid with apprehension. She said to her- 
self that she must have mistaken the street. No, there in 
the hallway was the black shawl. Litzie was gone ! 

A terrible dread seized her heart, clutched at her 
throat. Then she tried to think of some explanation. It 
was too clear, Litzie had been unable to understand her 
long delay — she had gone after her — tried to find her — 
failed. But where was the child, where? 

Litzie had money with her. Once before when they 
were in Hamburg she had lost her way for a few mo- 
ments in the street ; and then Nina had said to her : “If 
the worst comes to the worst, take a carriage and drive 
to the hotel. It is not very probable that we should miss 
one another, but still such a thing might happen.” 

“She won’t have driven to the hotel, but she may prob- 
ably to the station,” Nina said to herself. She waited a 
few moments and then screamed, “Litzie ! Litzie !” 

In one of the windows, between a row of withered 


270 


BROKEN WINGS. 


flower stalks which somebody had quite forgotten to 
keep alive with water, was a parrot in his cage swinging 
himself like a mad thing in his ring and screeching un- 
cannily. At another window two or three pale faces 
were pressing themselves against the panes. There was 
no answer to her cry ; she began to feel that her senses 
were going. 

She drove to the station. Litzie was not there. She 
saw the porter who had attended to them that morning. 
“Had he not seen her daughter?” she implored him — 
“a young girl in mourning with a black sailor’s hat.” 

He said, “Yes — he thought yes — she had gone by the 
last train — yes— yes, he remembered — to X-burg.” That 
was the station for Elmstadt. 

Nina clung convulsively to this straw of hope. Yes, 
for some reason or other, Litzie must have made up her 
mind to go on without her. She waited as best she might 
for the next train. 

Such a crowd as presently packed itself together at 
that station, she had never seen in all her life— compared 
with it the Sunday excursionists in Paris were a mere 
handful. It seemed as if all Hamburg were leaving the 
place. She heard nothing, saw nothing, save a confused 
mob of human beings, among whom she could see no 
Litzie ! 

At last she was able to find a seat in her train. After 
another hour and a half of torture she arrived at her 
destination. Here again at the station she inquired for 
Litzie. Here, too, people seemed to remember seeing a 
young girl in black with a sailor’s hat. She had arrived 
by the five o’clock train and driven with the doctor’s 
wife to Elmstadt. They knew the doctor’s wife quite 
well. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


271 


Nina breathed a little more freely. That must be Lit- 
zie ; the girl must have lost her head somehow, and fled 
home. 

How that could have happened she could not, indeed, 
imagine or explain ; but, improbable as it was, that was 
the only explanation of the matter at all likely to be true. 
She had ordered the carriage for a later hour. And it 
was only after a long search that she was able to engage 
a vehicle to take her to Elmstadt. And by this time she 
had quite persuaded herself that she should find Litzie 
at home. 

Vfhen her anguish and alarm were at their highest, a 
sort of anger took hold of her because of this cruel alarm 
the child had caused her ; if she found her all right at 
home, then she would, yes she would, give the little one 
a severer scolding than she had ever had. Oh, np, no, 
no ! She would go on her knees before the child, kiss 
her hands and feet, and thank God ! 

Everything around her was quite still, and the heat 
was great. And amid the stillness she could discern the 
cutting swish of the scythes as they mowed down the 
grain, and its dull sound as it fell, as if helpless in its 
ripeness, to the ground. 

Nina’s heart almost stopped beating. There was some- 
thing which all this suddenly brought back to her recol- 
lection. What was it, what? 

It brought back her memory of that hot August day at 
S. Eusebe, her anguish about her sick child; and, then, 
it brought back something else, something frightful, 
something that had preceded that illness. What was it? 
what? 

Then, it came back to her, came up in her mind as 


272 


BROKEN WINGS. 


some ghost might from a dark and dreadful grave, as a 
messenger of woe. It was that frightful wish which had 
forced itself into her soul, that frightful cry which had 
forced itself from her heart in Paris, so often — before 
she received the letter which informed her of her child’s 
illness. 

# 

“I wish it would die ; I wish it would but die !” 

The carriage stopped. She got out ; stepped into the 
house. There was no one in the hall ! 

“Meta!” she screamed. 

“Oh, thank God, madame ! at last!” cried Meta, from 
the garden, running up. 

“Is Litzie come home?” 

“No, madame.” 

“But she must have come ; by the five o’clock train — 
with the doctor’s wife !” 

“No; the doctor’s wife did come then, but it was her 
niece she brought with her, who lost her father and 
mother two days ago with the cholera.” 

“The cholera !” Nina staggered. 

“Yes, has not madame heard about it? Three hun- 
dred and fifty people died of it in Hamburg yesterday. 
And by noon to-day there will have been more than 
four hundred more. The doctor’s wife brought the news 
— we read all about it, cook and I, to-day. But the news- 
papers don’t give any idea of the horrors really going on. 
In the poorer streets people are throwing the corpses out 
of the windows into the street; they shove them out, 
anyhow, from the halls of the houses. The carts are 
driving through the streets night and day, picking up 
the sick and the dead wherever they find them. More 
than a thousand corpses are above ground, unburied. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


273 


But, for God’s sake ! madame, where is mademoi- 
selle?” 

The only answer Nina gave was an awful scream, such 
as a woman might utter under the hand of an assassin. 
She fell back, striking the wall heavily. 

Then she tried to hasten upstairs, and could not. Gasp- 
ing for breath between every word, she cried : 

“Meta, fetch the package of Litzie’s photographs — the 
one on my writing-table — quick, quick; fly !” 

Meta flew upstairs ; Nina stood there as if struck to 
stone. A sweet perfume came to her from the garden. 
Half mechanically she forced herself forward a few steps. 
Yes, there was the garden, spread out in all its peaceful 
loveliness ; the August heats had but very slightly burned 
its rich foliage. And, in front of the house was the table, 
with everything nicely laid, plentifully decked with flow- 
ers, waiting for her and Litzie. 

It was only now she perceived that she still held the 
pineapple she had bought for Litzie convulsively under 
her arm. She placed it on the table ; a cloud seemed to 
come over her consciousness. All of a sudden the whole 
thing seemed like an evil dream to her, all this struggle 
and terror — Klaus was not dead — Litzie had not disap- 
peared — no ! Presently they would all sit down together 
at this pretty, comfortable table to supper and exchange 
the old, fond, teasing, loving speeches — and form their 
plans for the future. 

Meta brought the photographs, and Nina awoke ; awoke 
not from an evil dream, but to the terrible consciousness 
that it was all only too, too real ! 

She got into the carriage again, which she had fortu- 
nately not thought of dismissing when she arrived. 


274 


BROKEN WINGS. 


“To the station!” she cried to the driver, “and for 
God’s sake, get there in time for the last train !” 

The sun was very low by this time, and everything 
threw a long shadow ; the tired, un willing horses labored 
heavily along the badly made crossroads ; in the distance 
the sea made its perpetual moan ; and all around there 
was the hissing of the reaping scythes and the dull 
murmur of the ripe, falling wheat. In Hamburg the 
Great Reaper of all— Death— was busily gathering in his 
harvest. 

During the ensuing days people saw a woman with 
gray hairs, dressed in black clothes, going about the 
streets of Hamburg with the photograph of a very 
beautiful girl in her hand. She had knocked at every 
door she passed. At first she sought the girl at the hotel : 
perhaps Litzie had taken refuge there? No! Then she 
had hurried back to the street in which she had left the 
little one, and which it now appeared was perhaps the 
most infected in all Hamburg. She had forced her way 
into all these houses, so clean and inviting in their ex- 
terior, but disclosing, within, such a mass of human 
misery closely packed together, of lives that could 
hardly be said to live at all, rather to vegetate ! Ev- 
erywhere, of everybody, the photograph in her hand, 
she asked after her child ; with no result, none, none at 
all! 

The carts that went about for the sick and dead had 
come often into that street ; but, as to speaking precisely 
about any person in particular whom they might have 
carried away on the day she specified, they really could 
not do it ; yes, it was quite true, the people had brought 
dead and sick alike down into the hall together ! 

And she went on with her search, on and on, further 


BROKEN WINGS. 


275 


and further. She went tottering from one watch-house, 
from one police-station to another, always with the photo- 
graph in her hand, and she was very soon only too sadly 
well known to all the police and other authorities in 
Hamburg. She sat there with trembling limbs, while 
others, who were stronger than herself, and whose 
tongues were readier, stated their business, while the 
intolerable sound of the telegraph bell was always in 
her ears, reporting fresh and fresh victims. 

When, at last, she could be listened to, all she said 
was listened to with the greatest sympathy, but with a 
shake of the head ; her story was too familiar. ‘ ‘A young 
girl in mourning, with a black sailor-hat, like this por- 
trait, only much, much prettier, with a little gold chain 
on the left arm.” 

Nobody could do anything for her ; nobody had even 
time to try — there was so much else to attend to. 

Sometimes, to pacify her, she was asked to leave the 
picture ; every inquiry should be made, and she should 
be informed directly of anything that came to their 
knowledge ; there was nothing else that could possibly 
be done. In this way she had parted with all the photo- 
graphs, all except one. And that one she was deter- 
mined nobody should have. 

She entreated to be allowed to go through the cholera 
hospitals. But this was ' either shortly and decisively 
refused, or she was referred from one authority to an- 
other. She came back again and again, always with the 
same story, which it became more and more difficult for 
her to tell intelligibly. At last, people got tired of her ; 
they refused to admit her at all, or cut her short if they 
did. Even when she knocked at the doors of the hos- 
pitals they were not opened to her. 


276 


BROKEN WINGS. 


Where she spent her nights— whether she returned to 
the hotel or not — she did not rightly know. One night 
they took her off to a police-station for shelter. During 
the day she wandered about the streets, all through the 
heat and carbolic stench ; and, when nobody else would 
listen to her, she stopped people in the streets as they 
passed and showed them the child’s photograph, and 
put questions to them which nobody could answer. 

But soon the people in the streets got to know her and 
avoid her. And before long she was pointed at, in the 
distance, as “the cholera-ghost.” 

It was not the least of her terrors that the plague and 
its frightful results were always manifesting themselves 
to her, who had no way of escape ; who, in her misery, 
could not even think of any. The sight she oftenest saw 
was one of those shabby old landaus, which were the 
terror of all Hamburg, stopping before a house. And 
then some form would come out, supported between a 
hospital attendant and one of the relatives — the form of 
some sick creature who could hardly stand, wrapped up 
closely from head to foot, with a face almost blue and 
eyes almost broken. And then the unhappy creature 
was pushed into the carriage. She asked herself what 
must have been the sufferings of poor Litzie, poor, ten- 
der Litzie, spoiled as she had been, sensitive as she al- 
ways had been to everything that could cause disgust, 
when she found herself in the midst of strangers, for- 
saken, among the plague-stricken, on coming out of the 
fainting-fit during which they must have carried her 
away— to a cholera-hospital I The thought was so fright- 
ful that she dug her nails deep into her hands to drive it 
away. 

The fifth of these fearful days drew to its close ; night 


BROKEN WINGS. 


277 


came on. She went on and on, further and further; 
went in the direction she now knew so well of one of the 
hospitals, at whose doors she had knocked so often in 
vain — knocked until she hurt her fingers. It was quite 
late. The lamps were lighted. A long, noisy rattling came 
down the street. A sick-carriage drove past her. She 
could hear quite plainly the groans of the unhappy creat- 
ure within. 

A sudden thought struck her. Perhaps she would be 
able to slip into the hospital unobserved in the shadow 
of the carriage. She hurried after it; and succeeded. 
Her heart beating loudly, she hid herself among the trees 
in one of the shadowy recesses of the spacious courtyard. 

In the rear of the court she heard a continuous noise 
of hammering and knocking. Following the direction of 
the sound, she soon came full on a horrible scene, lighted 
up by torches flickering in the but slightly cooled night 
air. The corpse-bearers were busily engaged in their 
dreadful labors. In one place she saw three great rows 
of coffins piled five deep, one upon the other. And there 
— she recoiled ! Merciful Heaven ! what was this ? They 
were dragging the corpses from the dead-house without 
a rag of clothing on them, dragging them along by the 
two arms and thrusting them into the coffins ! She be- 
came almost stiff with horror ! 

Then one of the men engaged in this terrible business 
caught sight of her, and accosted her roughly with the 
question, What was she doing there? 

She tried to say, “lam looking for my child V* She 
tried to take out the photograph. Then she was seized 
with a terrible fear that they might take it from her ; 
and it was the last she possessed ! 

Then there came up one of the sick nurses, just relieved 


278 


BROKEN WINGS. 


from her share of night duty, who had come out into the 
courtyard for some fresh air. A very sturdy, square- 
built person this was, with penetrating black eyes, look- 
ing out of a deeply-browned face. Twenty years of 
Nina’s life seemed suddenly to disappear. 

“Augusta!” she stammered. 

The other stood still for a moment ; then, slowly, as if 
she could hardly trust her eyes or her ears — 

“Nina!” 

“How do you come here?” asked Nina. 

“My husband is a physician. I have enrolled myself 
as sick-nurse ; every one must do what he can at this 
dreadful time. But, God in Heaven ! what are you do- 
ing here? how do you come here?” 

“I am looking for my child !” murmured Nina. Then 
she drew Augusta deeper among the trees and told her 
the same terrible story she had already told hundreds ; 
the story no one now was willing to listen to. 

Augusta listened to her with the utmost attention. 
She took the photograph and went with it to one of the 
lamps. 

“Yes, there can be no doubt of it; the child was nere 
with us. Besides, come, come with me. I can show 
you her things, which were put aside.” 

Nina went up the steps with her and into the corridor 
above. In the scanty light shed by a single lamp lay, 
one beside the other, a great number of corpses, each one 
wrapped in the sheet in which it had lain up to the last 
moment, each with the death certificate in the stiffened 
hands. Behind the doors was heard the groans and 
death-rattle of more than one poor creature. 

Augusta stepped with Nina to a part of the corridor 


BROKEN WINGS. 


279 


where the thim ~ were laid aside that belonged to persons 
who had not been identified. There, on a bundle, lay a 
small black sailor-hat ! 

Nina threw herself upon it with a loud cry. She 
opened the bundle. Yes, there it was ; the child’s fine 
linen, the black dress ! Nina covered them all with her 
tears and kisses. 

"She is dead!” murmured she in a heavy, dull voice. 

"Yes,” said Augusta. 

Nina stood transfixed, with the bundle in her hand. 
One of the doors was opened. A corpse was pushed 
out. 

"Come below, come!” said Augusta Jaworsky. And 
Nina went down, giddy, like a person walking in a 
dream, into the courtyard. 

Here all was still and peaceful, the night breeze sounded 
pleasantly in the trees, the stars sparkled above. Only 
that one, uniform, dull, heavy sound of hammering came 
over to where they stood. And, in the distance, was 
visible the white shimmer of the dead bodies as they 
were dragged out of the dead-house. 

Nina’s eyes were fastened inquiringly upon Augusta’s 
countenance. Augusta understood. 

"She did not suffer much,” said Augusta. "It is five 
days now since she was brought here to us. She was 
entirely unconscious, and it was plain to us that she had 
been brought here in that condition by some mistake. I 
undressed her myself and put her in the corner where the 
less serious cases were. She was so charming that I fell 
in love with her at the first glance. Yes, indeed, ev£n 
with all this grief and horror surrounding me. I hoped 
from one hour to another that she would be able to say 
something, but she could not. She lay there pale and 


280 


BROKEN WINGS. 


quiet, in a sort of waking dream, and it was quite plain 
that she was wrapped away in visions that protected her 
from knowledge of the dreadful realities of the case. I 
remained the whole night by her side. I was able to 
devote myself to her because I was off duty ; it was my 
turn to go and lie down. Toward morning she became 
very restless, and I thought that she could hardly avoid 
returning to consciousness, and I placed myself by the 
bed in such a position as to screen from her, as much as 
possible, the sight of what was about her. But it was 
not consciousness that came on, no— it was the death- 
struggle. She struggled for breath a few times, and tore 
at the coverlet, under which she lay, with her small, 
wasted hands. Then, suddenly, she raised herself up, 
smiled, as if she saw some angel holding out his arms to 
her — and sank back. I never saw anybody die with such 
an expression of bliss on their countenance.” 

“Was it of the pestilence she died?” 

“The symptoms did not suggest that. If I am not mis- 
taken, she succumbed to an acute attack of heart-disease. 
Besides, she was of very tender constitution and her poor 
little frame was quite worn out, even so early. Death 
only gave a slight stroke to the sweet flower, and it fell 
to the ground.” 

Augusta had finished all she had to tell. There ensued 
a long, long pause. Nina suddenly turned her head in 
the direction where the corpses were dragged across the 
path. 

“Was she buried with the others?” asked Nina, with 
a shudder. It was with difficulty that she could bring 
herself to ask the question. 

“No,” said Augusta. “I could not endure the idea of 
that. We had her deposited in our own vault.” 


BROKEN WINGS. 


281 


“Then, perhaps we could have her removed to Elm- 
stadt?” said Nina. 

“Removed! a corpse! from here, at such a time as 
this? Nina!” Augusta shrugged her shoulders, and 
then, hastily putting her hands in her pockets — “Here 
are a couple of trifles which belonged to her.” 

It was Litzie’s portemonnaie and the little armlet 
which Klaus had given her. 

It struck one. 

“My time is up. I must go upstairs,” said Augusta. 
“There is very much to do to-day. I allowed myself 
only one hour’s rest. I will take you out.” 

They went. Nina kept hold all the time of the bundle 
of the dead girl’s clothes. At the gate she was required 
to give it up; it was against the rules that anything 
should be carried out that had belonged to a presumed 
cholera-patient. 

Nina hesitated one moment at the threshold. She 
kissed Augusta’s hand and all but went down on her 
knees to her. The next moment the door closed behind 
her with a groaning noise ; she stood outside on the street 
— alone ! 

Her imagination had painted such frightful pictures of 
what was possible, what might have happened, and she 
had suffered such tortures in consequence, that what 
she had just heard was almost a relief to her. As for 
everything else, she was now quite impoverished, quite 
without resources, and yet, for the moment, at peace 
with herself. 

She stood there for a little while, as though she would 
never move more. Then, suddenly, the gate of the hospi- 
tal flew wide open and a tumbril with coffins drove past 


282 


BROKEN WINGS. 


her at a sharp trot. The rapid movement of the vehicle 
made the coffins clash together, and the sound struck 
Nina’s ears painfully. The poor mother shuddered to 
think that her child’s tender body might have had to 
meet its doom of decay among all these other corpses. 
And the knowledge that it had been otherwise ordered 
was some little comfort to her. 

And, as this feeling came across her, she saw and knew 
that the heart in her bosom wa3 not altogether d.ead. 

But it was a pain and grief to her that she could not 
remove the body to Elmstadt. Then she said to herself 
that it was perhaps a special dispensation of Providence 
that there should be no commingling of the earthly parts 
of the two creatures whose souls had thus heard and 
called to each other across “the great chasm.” Yea, 
the very dust of their corpses was to be kept tenderly 
but sternly separate I 


A pew days later the old Baroness Jewitsch sat, sur- 
rounded by her children and grandchildren, around the 
evening table at Unkenstein. It had been set out on a 
lawn that was shaded by lime-trees, and commanded a 
view of the river Tave. Everything in the persons and 
the scene spoke of love, comfort, happiness, of beautiful 
lives and a beautiful landscape. The sweet-smelling 
mountain breeze was blowing freely, and the sunshine 
fell warm and full upon the flower-beds on the lawn. 


BROKEN WINGS. 


283 


The distress which the sudden death of Klaus Olden 
had caused these good creatures had now comparatively 
subsided. His memory would, of course, remain ever 
fresh in the heart of the baroness, as something dear and 
consecrated. But it could not be so with the others, of 
course, to whom he had remained unknown. But their 
compassionate affection for their sister was heightened 
by what they knew to have befallen her ; though they 
knew it only partially. 

They were all looking with no little anxiety for what 
the afternoon’s post might bring them. Would it bring 
them some intelligence as to Nina’s doings after this long 
interval? She had not written for a fortnight. In her 
next letter she would surely announce the day when she 
would be with them. In view of the dreadful events 
occurring at Hamburg they would have been thankful 
to know that she and the child were safe and with them 
all. But it was positive that the pestilence seemed to 
stop short of the Holstein frontier. And Nina had no 
occasion to go to Hamburg at all. So they quieted 
themselves with these reflections. 

It was now ten days since the arrival of the first terror- 
laden dispatches from the stricken city. People had be- 
gun to familiarize themselves a little with the new, sad 
circumstances. Fright and horror are feelings too strong 
to last in their first intensity ; human nature could never 
endure such a strain as that. And the good creatures 
there were, at the moment we see them, laughing ; 
yes, actually laughing at some joke about the cholera- 
bacillus. Only, the old baroness did not laugh with 
them ! 

A step was heard on the gravel ; a long black shadow 
fell upon the table at which they were seated. They all 


284 


BROKEN WINGS. 


looked up. Then there came forward among these joy- 
ous creatures a woman in deep mourning, with hair as 
white as snow. Her face was yellow, her eyes were sunk 
deep in their black sockets. She looked like a woman of 
seventy. She had a photograph in her hand. 

Not one of them knew her. She stood still before the 
chair in which the baroness sat. She tried to speak, but 
all that came from her throat was a hoarse, creaking 
sound. One of the children began to scream and cry 
for sheer fright. 

The old baroness half rose from her seat, and looked 
more closely into the stranger’s eyes. Then the latter 
sank at her feet — and fainted. 

“Nina!” screamed the old woman, stooping to her 
daughter. 

“Nina!” repeated her brothers and sister, with horri- 
fied incredulity, “Nina?” 

Yes. It was Nina Jewitsch. She had returned to her 
home. 


THE END. 


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WIFE 


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CAM ARY tTX ‘S? ' “ ' 


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15 CENTS. 


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URNET7 

* 

AT THE 


CHICAGO EXPOSITION 


WHAT THE RESTAURATEURS AND CATERERS WHO ARE TO FEED 
THE PEOPLE INSIDE THE FAIR GROUNDS THINK OF 

BURNETT’S EXTRACTS: 


Chicago, April 2d, 1893. 
tfessrs. Joseph Burnett & Co. 

Gentlemen : After careful tests and inves- 
tigation of the merits of your flavoring ex- 
tracts, we have decided to give you the 
entire order for our use, in our working 
lepartment as well as in all our creams and 
ces, used in all of our restaurants in the 
juildings of the World’s Columbian Ex- 
josition at Jackson Park. 

Very truly yours, 
WELLINGTON CATERING CO. 

By Albert S. Gage, President. 


Chicago, April 26th, 1893. 
dessrs. Joseph Burnett & Co., 

Boston and Chicago. 

Gentlemen : After careful investigation we 
lave decided that Burnett’s Flavoring Ex- 
racts are the l >est. We shall use them ex- 
lusively in the cakes, ice creams and 
astries served in Banquet Hall and at New 
Ingland Clam Bake in the World’s Fair 
Grounds. 

N. E. WOOD, Manager, 

New' England Clam Bake Building. 

F. K. MCDONALD, Manager, 

Banquet Hall. 


Woman’s Building, ? 

World’s Columbian Exposition. ) 
Chicago, April 21st, 1893. 
lessrs. Joseph Burnett & Co., 

Boston and Chicago. 

Gentlemen: We take pleasure in stating 
hat Burnett’s Flavoring Extracts will 
>e used exclusively in the Garden Cafe, 
Voman’s Building, World’s Columbian Ex- 
>osition, during the period of the World’s 
’air. 

RILEY & LAWFORD. 


Columbia Casino Co. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & Co., 

Boston and Chicago. 

Gentlemen: We take pleasure in stating 
that Burnett’s Flavoring Extracts will be 
used exclusively in the cuisine of the 
Columbia Casino Restaurant, at the 
W oild’s Fair Grounds, as it is our aim to 
use nothing but the best. Respectfully, 

H. A. WINTER, Manager. 


Transportation Building, > 
World’s Columbian Exposition.) 
„ Chicago, April 24, 1893. 

Messrs. Joseph Burnett & Co. 

Gerais; Alter careful tests and compari- 
sons w e Lave decided to use “ Burnett’s 
Extracts ” exclusively In our ice creams, 
ices aud pastry. Very respectfully, 

„ SCHARPS & KAHN, 

Caterers for the " Golden Gate Cafe,” 

•• TBOOADEEO.” Ira “ S ‘> 0rtl ‘ tl0 “ Bulld1 ”*- 
Cor. 16th Street and Michigan Avenue. 


"The Great White Horse’ Inn Co., ) 
World’s Columbian > 
Exposition Grounds. ) 
Chicago, III., U. S. A., April 26, 1893. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & Co., 

Boston and Chicago. 

Gentlemen : It being our aim to use noth- 
ing but the best we have decided to use 
Burnett’s Flavoring Extracts exclusively , in 
the ice cream, cakes and pastries served In 
‘‘The Great White Horse” Inn, In the 
grounds of the World’s Columbian Expo- 
sition. Very truly yours, 

T. B. SEELEY, Manager, 
“ The Great White Horse ” Inn Co. 


"he Restaurants, that have contracted to use Burnett’s Extracts, exclusively, 

are as follows : 


VELLINGTON CATERING CO„ 
GREAT WHITE HORSE” INN, 
PHE GARDEN CAFE, 

woman’s building. 


COLUMBIA CASINO CO., 

THE GOLDEN GATE CAFE, 

NEW ENGLAND CLAM BAKE CO., 
BANQUET HALL. 


IOSEPH BURNETT & CO., BOSTON, MASS. 


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i* 

They Act Like Magic on the Vital Organs, 
^ Regulating the Secretions, restoring long lost 
^ Complexion, bringing back the Keen Edge of 
% Appetite, and arousing with the ROSEBUD OF 

? HEALTH the whole physical energy of the 

$• 

human frame. These Facts are admitted by 

|s 

g, thousand^ in all classes of Society. Largest 
Sale in the World. 


Covered with a tfaiteless & Soluble Coating, 


^ Of all druggists. Price 25 cents a box. 

New York Depot, 365 Canal St. 3 

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